The Collar by Frank O'Connor Page B

suddenly shot up like a rat-trap, ‘why are you telling me all these lies?’
    â€˜Lies?’ shouted Father Michael, flushing.
    â€˜Lies, of course,’ said Howe without rancour. ‘Damned lies, transparent lies! You’ve been trying to fool me for the last ten minutes, and you very nearly succeeded.’
    â€˜Ah, how could I remember?’ Father Michael said wearily. ‘I don’t attach all that importance to a few onions.’
    â€˜I’d like to know what importance you attach to the rigmarole you’ve just told me,’ snorted Howe. ‘I presume you’re trying to shield Collins, but I’m blessed if I see why.’
    Father Michael didn’t reply. If Howe had been Irish, he wouldn’t have asked such a silly question, and as he wasn’t Irish, he wouldn’t understand the answer. The MacEnerneys had all been like that. Father Michael’s father, the most truthful, Godfearing man in County Clare, had been threatened with a prosecution for perjury committed in the interest of a neighbour.
    â€˜Anyway,’ Howe said sarcastically, ‘what really happened was that you came home, found your garden robbed, said “Good night” to the sentry, and asked him who did it. He said it was some kids from the village. Then you probably had a talk about the beautiful, beautiful moonlight. Now that’s done, what about coming up to the mess some night for dinner?’
    â€˜I’d love it,’ Father Michael said boyishly. ‘I’m destroyed here for someone to talk to.’
    â€˜Come on Thursday. And don’t expect too much in the way of grub. Our mess is a form of psychological conditioning for modern warfare. But we’ll give you lots of onions. Hope you don’t recognise them.’
    And he went off, laughing his harsh but merry laugh. Father Michael laughed too, but he didn’t laugh long. It struck him that the English had very peculiar ideas of humour. The interview with Howe had been anything but a joke. He had accused the sentry of lying, but his own attempts at concealing the truth had been even more unsuccessful than Collins’s. It did not look well from a priest. He rang up the convent and asked for Sister Margaret. She was his principal confidante.
    â€˜Remember the sentry last night?’ he asked expressionlessly.
    â€˜Yes, father,’ she said nervously. ‘What about him?’
    â€˜He’s after being arrested.’
    â€˜Oh!’ she said, and then, after a long pause: ‘For what, father?’
    â€˜Stealing my onions and being absent from duty. I had an officer here, making inquiries. It seems he might be shot.’
    â€˜Oh,’ she gasped. ‘Isn’t that awful?’
    â€˜â€™Tis bad.’
    â€˜Oh!’ she cried. ‘Isn’t that the English all out? The rich can do what they like, but a poor man can be shot for stealing a few onions! I suppose it never crossed their minds that he might be hungry. What did you say?’
    â€˜Nothing.’
    â€˜You did right, I’d have told them a pack of lies.’
    â€˜I did,’ said Father Michael.
    â€˜Oh!’ she cried. ‘I don’t believe for an instant that ’tis a sin, father. I don’t care what anybody says. I’m sure ’tis an act of charity.’
    â€˜That’s what I thought too,’ he said, ‘but it didn’t go down too well. I liked the officer, though. I’ll be seeing him again and I might be able to get round him. The English are very good like that, when they know you.’
    â€˜I’ll start a novena at once,’ she said firmly.

T HE O LD F AITH
    I T WAS A GREAT DAY WHEN , on the occasion of the Pattern at Kilmulpeter, Mass was said in the ruined cathedral and the old Bishop, Dr Gallogly, preached. It was Father Devine, who was a bit of an antiquarian, who looked up the details of the life of St Mulpeter for him. There were a lot of