"Turn him over," he told the quiet one.

Blondie began to search me with violence.

"No, not you," said the sergeant, " Vereker."

Vereker searched me, quietly, and, even along the seams of my flies, with courtesy.

"Lift your arms up over your head.Put your leg up. Thank you."

From an inside pocket he took my money, a forged travel permit, and a letter which happened to be written in Irish.

It was from a boy in Dublin who was sick in bed and wanted me to come and see him.He was a dreary bastard in any language, and I, a good-natured and affectionate boy, found him distressing to meet and embarrassing to avoid. I would have a good excuse for not meeting him for some time to come.

The blonde studied the Gaelic writing over Vereker's shoulder.

Disgusted, he turned to me and shouted, "You facquing bestud, how would you like to see a woman cut in two by a plate‐ glass window?"

I would have answered him on the same level—Bloody Sunday, when the Black and Tans attacked a football crowd in our street; the massacre at Cork; Balbriggan; Amritsar; the R.A.F. raids on Indian villages.I had them all off, and was expecting something like this. But the sergeant said in a reasonable tone:

"Well, Paddy, there are people gathered round this house, and I don't think they mean you any good." He laughed a bit. "But take no heed of them.We'll get you to the Assizes all right.Safe and sound."

Vereker released my arm and went to the window. "Uniformed men are making them move along."

The sergeant told Blondie to let me go.

"We'll sit here a while," he said, sitting on the side of the bed, grunting.He pointed, and I came over and sat beside him.

"I wish to Christ I was your age, Paddy, I'd have something better to do than throwing bombs around.How old are you?"

"I'm sixteen, and I'll be seventeen in February."

"So they sent you over here, you silly little twirp, while the big

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