The square-faced man looked Dicky over in a glance, turned to Chapman and held out his hands-one palm down over the back of the other. "Head," said Chapman. The top hand slid off. A penny, head uppermost, was revealed. Astley produced a pound note from a trouserpocket, handed it over, and looked at Dicky again. Dicky smiled and raised his eyebrows inquiringly. Instantly the hands appeared under his nose in the same solemn and expectant way—“ Tails," said Dicky. It was not; it was a head. Trying to emulate the speed with which his opponent had done the same thing a moment before, Dicky whipped a Bradbury from his pocket and paid up. The big man turned about and left the room, bellowing for the keeper's wife. Chapman grinned. "He'll do that every morning to you now," he said; "he'd have missed you out if you hadn't given him the signal you'd come in. He does it every morning to us at breakfast, or whenever he meets one of us for the first time in the day. He's from Bradford." "Do they all do that at Bradford ? 66 Aye, most of 'em. Once to each man they meet and no more. No doubles or quits. Just one cut, sharp. Y'see, it's a matter o' credit, an' credit's brass i' business." The entry of the remainder of the party interrupted Dicky's attempts to unravel this cryptic explanation. Chapman introduced them in a whirl of Christian and surnames and sat down again. There was a general subsidence into chairs and a babel of talk. All the new arrivals seemed to want to do two things at once-to take off their boots and to get something to drink. Eventually both these requirements were satisfied. There seemed to be some arrangement by which labour was shared; perhaps the offices were traditional and hereditary or perhaps were arranged for the occasion, but certainly the peer's son carried the boots out to the kitchen, and the sporting policeman mixed the drinks. A heap of slippers by the side of the fire was sorted out and distributed, and with one accord the guests began to clamour for food. "And dinner's been waiting this hour," said the host cheerfully. Fetch it, and fill 66 Two men rose and went out at once. They illustrated between them specimens of north country Capital and Labour. They looked much alike, they dressed in much the same way, and, as Dicky was to discover, they were about equally wellread. A clatter of plates and dishes from across the hall a moment later indicated that they held the ranks of butler and parlour-maid between them. Dicky wondered at the moment which of them held the higher rank. He discovered later that Capital did, possibly owing to his reputation as a sound judge of wine. up. You don't work-that's means an awfully early start. what makes you drink so." It gets so hot, too, before we get back, but it is good for the horses. Peter is simply frightfully fit, and has started bucking again. He squeals and plunges as soon as he gets on the grass, the big scoundrel. Norah is rather fat, and will take longer to get fit, but they will be all ready for you in a fortnight. Such a bit of bad luck! Father has a horse we got last season-a big blood horse rather like Peter (but with much better manners), and we were going to put him in the Jumping Competition in the Show here on the 26th, but he has been kicked by Sally and won't be right for weeks-right on the hock. Betty Creile was going to ride him because her brother will have to be back before then, and she is so miserable. She is my greatest friend, and she says she thinks she saw you in the train coming down. She had been up to Rendall's about the shoeing and got out here. She saw the name on your suitcase, but she said she didn't talk to you. I wish you were able to be back because you could ride your lovely Peter in the Show. He's just fit for it. I have let Betty exercise him, as she rides very well, but I told her you were awfully particular who rode your beasts and objected to Jumping Shows, and that she must never take him over a hurdle even. There is a dance over at Garntree on the 21st. and we are going. We are so sunburnt we shall Following on what seemed to go by the local name of “Onesharp," and which in this case was a strong gin-and-water, Dicky and his host went upstairs to hunt out their slippers and to wash for dinner. Chapman, having shown his guest his room, departed to his own. Dicky sat on the bed and felt in his pocket for his pipe. He found the pipe, and also found a letter that had arrived just before he left the Hansard house; knowing that it was from his cousin Ann at Westleigh, he had decided its perusal could be postponed. The present appearing to be a suitable moment, he opened it. DEAR DICKY,-I do hope you had good shooting, and that you are enjoying yourself. What are the Hansards like We have started some unofficial cubbing now, and it look perfectly awful. Oh! and Dicky threw the letter on the bed and lit his pipe. The conjugal tangles of Westleigh village held no interest for him. After a reflective study of his appearance in the looking-glass opposite he remembered that he had not yet taken off his boots. He slowly removed one, and threw it across the room. Then he hobbled across to his suit-case, turned out the contents, and found his slippers. Sitting on the bed again, he unlaced the other boot. Then he relit his pipe, rummaged among his clothes in the kit-bag, found a fountainpen and writing materials, and sat down at the dressing-table. "DEAR ANN,-Am getting fine shooting. Shot rotten to begin with, but got better. Will be here a few days yet. "There is no earthly reason why your friend should not jump Peter. I don't know why you told her I objected. You had only got to ask. He ought to be placed if he doesn't win. "I won't be back for the dance, anyway. I wouldn't have gone if I was. Yours, He then hurriedly completed his toilet, and proceeded downstairs to a repast which would have made Mr Jorrocks burst into song. It was not merely dinner for hungry NorthcounGargantuan-it was a Dales trymen. While he endeavours to hold his own at the board, we will carry the reader thirty six hours forward and some two hundred and fifty miles south, landing him at the Westleigh breakfast table as two ladies, the first arrivals, enter the dining-room. One goes to the coffee-urn, the other picks up a pile of letters. Let me look. Yes, you were quite right. Oh, Ann! you did it beautifully!" 'It's easy once you know. You'd better take Peter round the course this morning. He won't want much schoolingonly getting hard. We'll put him on full corn now." "Oh-I'm all ready for him. He'll be ready too. Can I see that letter again? Ye-e-es "DICK. "P.S.-Light Pelham and I thought that no Martingale." thought he looked like (To be continued.) TALES OF THE R.I.C. XIX. MOUNTAIN WARFARE. THE movements of the flying columns of the I.R.A.-gangs of armed ruffians, usually numbering about forty, but sometimes more, sometimes less, and led by men with military experience (ex-soldiers and even ex-officers, to their everlasting shame)-have always corresponded accurately to the amount of police and military pressure brought to bear on them, which pressure has continually fluctuated in agreement to the whims and brainwaves of the politicians in power. Figuratively speaking, these same politicians have kept the police and military with one hand tied behind their back, and sometimes when the screams of the mob politicians in the House have been loudest, have very nearly tied up both their hands. If a chart had been kept during the Irish war showing the relative intensity of the politicians' screams and the activities of the I.R.A., the reading of it would be highly interesting and instructive. Extra pressure, more rigid enforcement of existing restrictions on movement, and increased military activity have always resulted in a general stampede of flying columns to the mountains of the West, where the gunmen could rest in comparative safety, and swagger about among the simple and ignorant mountain-folk to their hearts' content. Here they would stay until the politicians, frightened by inspired questions in the House, would practically confine the military and police to barracks. The gunmen would then, with great reluctance, leave the safety of the mountains, and return to the southern front, to carry on once more the good work of political murder. And so the game of seesaw went on. Every time that the Crown forces saw victory in sight the politicians would drag them back again to start all afresh. The wonder is that the Crown forces stuck it so long with every hand against them, and their worst abuse coming from a cowardly section of their own countrymen in England. Early in 1921 the Crown forces in the South of Ireland suddenly gave forth signs that a determined effort was to be made to deal effectively, once and for all, with the gangs of armed murderers and robbers roaming the country, masquerading as soldiers of the Irish Republic; and again the flying columns fled in haste to their mountain retreats in the West, a part of the country where the majority of the inhabitants have always done their best to Loyalists only. All they had keep out of the trouble, with to do was to commandeer as a few isolated exceptions. many cars or bicycles as they wanted, where, when, and how they liked. This time they stayed longer; in fact, each time it became harder to induce the gunmen to forsake the peace of the mountains for the war in the South. After a time they started to vary the monotony by carrying out punitive expeditions against the police and the unfortunate Loyalists in the surrounding lowlands, but always to fly back to the mountains at the first sight of a force of police or soldiers. Ex-soldiers were the chief game at this period. A district would be chosen where there were no troops and few police. A list of all ex-soldiers living in this district would be made out, and guides provided by the local I.R.A. commandant. Each ex-soldier would be visited in turn during a night, given his choice of active service with the I.R.A. or a sudden death. Those who remained loyal to the King would be led out and butchered like sheep, though possibly the murderers would not take the trouble to remove their victims, but would fire a volley into them as they lay in bed, and leave them there. Truly a brave army! Transport presented no difficulty to the gunmen. The British Government took practically no steps to control the movements of motors, motor bicycles, or push-bicycles, except the motor-permit farce, which greatly inconvenienced However, this was not all the work which the Sinn Fein leaders intended their flying columns to carry out, and in order to induce the gunmen to return to duty the usual noisy peace squeal was started in England, so that conditions might be made pleasanter for the gunmen in the South. The murdering of ex-soldiers and helpless Loyalists could be easily carried out by local Volunteers under a well-seasoned murderer -an excellent method of initiating raw recruits into the methods of the Sinn Fein idea of warfare. The British Government, always great judges of Irish character, thought that the Sinn Fein leaders were coming to their senses at last, took off the pressure, and the gunmen duly returned to duty. At length there came a time when these columns really got the wind up, stampeded to the Western mountains, and this time refused point - blank to return to duty. In the late spring of 1921 Blake was suddenly called over to England on private business in London, and afterwards went down to the country to spend a few days with the parents of a man with whom he had served in France. The day after his arrival Blake's host told him that a Black and Tan, a native of |