# Minnie's Bishop and Other Stories/Matty Hynes' Pig
### VII.—MATTY HYNES' PIG.

THE inhabitants of the Island of Inishbee, which lies off the coast of Connaught, objected to paying the rate levied on their lands, quite lawfully, by the county authorities. The sum was not large. A moderately rich man would have written a cheque for the whole of it without hesitation. It amounted in all to £2 7s. 4d. There were three families on Inishbee, and the amount due by them varied from £1 15s. 1d., payable by Thomas Geraghty, to 3s. 2d., the share of the poorest of his two cousins. It was not the ruinous amount of the impost which led to the strike against payment. The Geraghtys took their stand on a principle, or rather on two principles. In the first place, they were free islanders, and objected to paying anything, rate, rent, or tax, to anybody. In the second place, they maintained, with great justice, that they derived no benefit whatever from the way in which the county rates were spent. Roads and bridges were repaired elsewhere. There were no roads or bridges on their island. Workhouses were kept open for the reception of the indigent. No paupers went to them from Inishbee. The salaries of dispensary doctors were paid that the poor might be cured of their diseases. None of the Geraghtys of Inishbee were ever ill. ​The fourteen young Geraghtys who rejoiced the hearts of three pairs of parents had all struggled into the world without medical assistance. The people on the mainland might levy rates on themselves if they liked, and squander the money on useless luxuries. The three families on Inishbee got on very well without roads, workhouses, or doctors, and saw no reason why they should pay for what they neither had nor wanted.
Matty Hynes took quite a different view of the matter. It was his business to collect the rates. He had, ultimately, to pay over the whole sum levied into the banking account of the County Council. If he failed to collect the contribution due by any particular householder he suffered the loss himself. When the people of Inishbee refused to pay, Matty Hynes was £2 7s. 4d. poorer than he ought to have been. He disliked losing the money. He disliked still more the feeling that the three families of Geraghtys were robbing him. He, too, waiving the consideration of the smallness of the sum in dispute, took his stand on principle. The money was due, and what is due must, if society is to survive, be paid. He put this view of the matter before the Geraghtys, but they were not affected by it. Their position remained unchanged.
The law provides the rate-collector with a weapon against defaulters. It allows him to seize their property and sell it by public auction, satisfying his claim out of the proceeds of the sale. The Geraghtys ​owned property. They had on their island four bullocks, a cow, two sows, and seven small pigs. Matty Hynes, driven at last to extremities, resolved to seize some or all of these animals. He knew that the Geraghtys would offer all the resistance in their power, so he called on the police officer of the locality and demanded his assistance.
Mr. Benson, the District Inspector of Police, was a young man with the feelings of a gentleman, and a natural dislike for tax-collectors. He was a sportsman, and rather admired the stand made by the Geraghtys. But he was also an officer, pledged to the maintenance of law and order. He felt himself forced to accede to the request made by Matty Hynes.
"I suppose," he said, with a note of sarcasm in his voice, "that four constables and the sergeant will be enough to overawe the Geraghtys?"
"They will, surely," said Matty Hynes, adding as an afterthought, "if so be we had them there."
Mr. Benson was new to the west of Ireland. There seemed to him no reason why the men should not be taken to Inishbee in a boat. The island was only two miles distant from the mainland. He said as much to Matty Hynes.
"You might take them in a boat," said Matty, "if so be you had the boat."
There were five boats in the little harbour at Ballymore; stout fishing-boats, each of them able to carry four constables, a sergeant, Mr. Benson, ​Matty Hynes, and a couple of bailiffs. They belonged to men who were continually grumbling about the difficulty of earning money. It seemed obvious to Mr. Benson that any one of them would be glad to hire his boat for a reasonable sum. Matty Hynes was an older man than Mr. Benson, and had spent his whole life in Connaught. He was not sure that any boat would be available.
Mr. Benson, prompt in action as befits a man in his profession, walked down to the harbour. He found the whole five boats-owners leaning over a wall. They were studying the sky with a view to being able to foretell the weather. They were also smoking pipes. Mr. Benson greeted them cheerily.
"Boys," he said, "will any of you hire me a boat for a day?"
There was a stir of surprise and pleasurable anticipation among the men. The hiring of a boat is a very rare thing in Ballymore.
"If it's for the coal-fish that your honour's going out," said Peter Reilly, the oldest of the fishermen, "the tide will be right tomorrow afternoon."
"I've no time for fishing," said Mr. Benson. "I want to go to Inishbee."
"You might do that," said Peter Reilly, "if you had the wind. But there's no wind. You'd need four men to row that length."
"I'll have the police," said Mr. Benson.
The fishermen looked at one another doubtfully. ​No man in Ireland cares to be mixed up with the police if he can help it.
"Is it a still you're after?" said Peter Reilly. "For if it is——"
Everybody sympathizes with the illicit distiller. The trade is highly beneficial to a public which appreciates cheap spirits. Mr. Benson had knowledge enough of the minds of the people to protest at once that he had no intention of seizing a still. Peter Reilly looked round his friends with a slow, searching gaze. His eyes left them and rested on Mr. Benson. Then, passing Mr. Benson, they surveyed the road which led to the harbour. Matty Hynes stood about fifty yards up the road, watching for Benson. Peter Reilly saw him and understood at once what the boat was wanted for.
"If it's to seize the Geraghtys' beasts," he said, "that you're wanting to go to Inishbee, you'll get no boat."
"And why not?" said Mr. Benson.
"Because they'd have it smashed to bits on you with the stones they'd be pelting into her. Believe you me, your honour, them Geraghtys in Inishbee is terrible wild. Thomas is the worst of them. He'd think very little of knocking a hole the size of your head in a boat if he had it in his mind that she was after him to be doing harm. It'll be better for you to leave them fellows alone. What's the loss of the money to Matty Hynes? He can afford it. We'd be willing to oblige your honour in the matter of a ​day's fishing or the like, but as for giving out a boat to Matty Hynes, and getting her hammered into bits by them playboys beyond in Inishbee, it's what we wouldn't do."
There was a murmur of assent from the other fishermen. Peter Reilly had given expression to their feelings. Mr. Benson left the quay and walked up toward the town. On the way he met Matty Hynes.
"Did you get the boat?" said Matty.
"I did not."
"I was thinking you wouldn't. They're a poor-spirited lot, them fellows that owns the boats."
"I wish you and your rate were at the bottom of the sea together," said Mr. Benson. "What do you want to make all this fuss for over a matter of a couple of pounds?"
"It's yourself that'll have to help me to get it," said Matty, "whether you like it or not."
"I know that," said Mr. Benson.
"Without we was to swim," said Matty, meditatively, "I know of no way we'll get the police and the bailiffs out to Inishbee except the one. We'd be hard set to swim there," he added, "seeing it's a good two miles. And when it came to swimming back with maybe a couple of bullocks along with us——"
"Talk sense," said Mr. Benson, "and tell me what you want me to do now." ​
"I don't see what there is to do," said Matty, "barring a gunboat."
Mr. Benson started, and meditated a flat rejection of a proposal hardly less absurd to his mind than the idea of swimming. Then he recollected that on other occasions, in other places along the western Irish coast, the ships of his Majesty's navy had been employed on similar errands. He went home and wrote a letter to his superior officer. That gentleman, in turn, wrote to some one else. Many letters passed between the police authorities in Dublin Castle, the Local Government Board, the Chief Secretary for Ireland, and the Admiralty. The whole correspondence, when collected, filed, and submitted to the Lord-Lieutenant, made an imposing bundle of foolscap.
Three weeks later H.M. gunboat Curlew steamed out of Queenstown Harbor. Lieutenant Eckersley, who commander her, was in a very bad temper. He did not want to voyage round the coasts of Kerry and battle his way northward through the Atlantic. He wanted to stay in Queenstown and take part in a lawn-tennis tournament which he had helped to organise. He disliked the prospect of feeling his way to an unknown anchorage off the town of Ballymore. The Connaught coast has a bad reputation among sailors. There are hidden rocks in unexpected places, tides which sweep violently along, and an almost total absence of buoys, lights and other aids to navigation. The ​crew of the Curlew shared their commander's irritation. Every man of them had his own ties in Queenstown. There were agreeable young women there. It seemed unlikely that there would be any young women in Ballymore. If they had known the name of Matty Hynes these men would have cursed him. They had never heard of him, and so they cursed Mr. Benson, who was not really to blame. Curiously enough, neither they nor Lieutenant Eckersley cursed the people of Inishbee. It was felt in the gunboat that these unhappy islanders were the victims of official fussiness. So were the sailors. Their common sufferings created a bond of sympathy between them.
At about seven o'clock on a very fine evening the Curlew cast anchor outside Ballymore Harbour. Inishbee lay to the west, a low, black patch against the setting sun. Lieutenant Eckersley surveyed it through his glasses and sighed. Then he turned and surveyed the town. It looked exceedingly uninteresting. He sighed again. A fishing-boat stole out of the harbour, her brown sail boomed out to catch the easterly breeze. She was followed by another and then another. All five fishing-boats left the harbour. This was a very unusual thing; for the Ballymore fishermen seldom fish, except in the early spring when the mackerel visit the coast. Lieutenant Eckersley knew enough of the ways of Connaught fishermen to feel surprised at the appearance of the fleet. He remarked on it an hour ​later when he visited Mr. Benson. Then he got to business.
"What time do you and your party intend to start tomorrow?" he asked.
"The earlier the better," said Mr. Benson. "All I want is to get the job over,"
"Eight o'clock?"
"Very well. I'll have my men at the quay at eight."
"You quite understand, of course," said Lieutenant Eckersley, "that I and my men take no part in the proceedings. We're simply there as spectators."
"For the matter of that," said Mr. Benson, "I and my men don't either. We look on, unless we're obliged to afford protection to the rate-collector and the bailiffs."
"Oh," said Lieutenant Eckersley, "I thought you police——"
"You were wrong then," said Mr. Benson.
He felt strongly on the subject of the dignity of the Royal Irish Constabulary, and was inclined to resent the tone taken by the naval officer. Lieutenant Eckersley said no more at the time; but later in the evening, speaking to one of his subordinates, he referred to Mr. Benson and his men as "beastly bobbies." So it happened that the party which met next morning on the deck of the Curlew was not a comfortably assorted one. Lieutenant Eckersley and his officers held aloof from Mr. Benson. The sailors showed by their manner that they regarded ​the police as their inferiors. The police stood as far as possible apart from Matty Hynes, who wore no uniform of any kind. Matty Hynes, on his part, asserted his dignity by refusing to speak to the two bailiffs whom he had brought with him.
Inishbee, when the gunboat reached it, presented a curiously. deserted appearance. There was not a man, woman, or child to be seen. No smoke issued from the chimneys of the three cottages. Neither the cow nor a single one of the four bullocks was visible in the fields. Lieutenant Eckersley was so far moved by the unusual appearance of desolation that he crossed the deck and spoke to Mr. Benson.
"Do you want to land?" he asked. "There doesn't appear to be man or beast on the island."
Mr. Benson told the sergeant to summon Matty Hynes. Matty, putting his pipe in his pocket, joined the two officers.
"Do you want to land?" asked Mr. Benson. "There doesn't seem to be anything for you to seize."
"Unless you propose to carry off the island itself," said Lieutenant Eckersley.
"They have them hid on me," said Matty Hynes. "Hell to their souls! but they have them hid in some hole or other. I'll land, of course. Them Geraghtys is beyond anything for their tricks. They'd steal the coat off your back and you looking at them."
Lieutenant Eckersley gave an order, and two ​boats were lowered. He himself, moved by curiosity, went in one of them, accompanied by Mr. Benson and three of the police. The other two police, Matty Hynes, and the bailiffs, were landed by the second boat.
"Now," said Mr. Benson, "off with you, Matty, and find your cattle."
"I'll not go a step," said Matty Hynes, "without you and the police along with me. I'd be in dread of them Geraghtys. They might be waiting somewhere unknown to me with sticks and stones and all sorts ready in their hands, or maybe worse. My life wouldn't be safe among them."
"I think I'll come too," said Lieutenant Eckersley, lighting a cigarette.
The possibility of a skirmish between the police and a force of ambushed Geraghtys excited him. The party proceeded cautiously toward the nearest cottage. Three of the police marched in front with their carbines in their hands. Matty Hynes and the bailiffs followed them. Then came Mr. Benson and the remaining police. Lieutenant Eckersley, with his cigarette, followed about five yards behind. The house was empty. So was the pigsty which stood beside it. Matty Hynes and the bailiffs examined the whole premises carefully.
"They'll be waiting for me beyond," he said, "wherever it is they have the beasts hid, and I'll trouble you, Mr. Benson, to see that no harm comes to me and the bailiffs. They're murdering villains, ​them Geraghtys. I wouldn't trust them not to have some kind of a trap laid for us."
The little army proceeded in the same order to the second house. Here the search was more successful. Matty Hynes came upon a small pig which was rooting cheerfully in the manure heap before the door.
"You may seize that fellow, anyway," said Matty. "We'll get the rest of the beasts further on."
One of the bailiffs made a grab at the pig and missed it. It was a small and active pig. It ran to the far end of the manure heap and then stopped and looked at the bailiff.
"Catch it, can't you?" said Matty Hynes.
Both the bailiffs tried, but the pig escaped again. It was accustomed to being chased by the Geraghty children, and thoroughly understood the game. It grunted with delight as it eluded the bailiffs. Mr. Benson, Lieutenant Eckersley, and the police grinned.
"You may leave him alone," said Matty Hynes. "I wouldn't be bothered taking the like of him. I'll go on till I find where they have the cattle hid."
The third and largest house was Thomas Geraghty's. A voice issued from the door as the party approached it.
"Mind yourselves now," said Matty Hynes. "They'll be out for blood this day."
The police grasped their carbines. Mr. Benson straightened himself. Lieutenant Eckersley lit a ​fresh cigarette. Matty Hynes approached the door cautiously. A long speech uttered in a shrill, quavering shriek greeted him.
"What's that?" said Lieutenant Eckersley. "It sounds to me like a woman's voice."
"She's talking Irish," said Mr. Benson. "What's she saying, Matty?"
"So far as she's got up to now," said Matty, "she's done nothing but curse, but I'm just after asking her where they have the cattle hid."
"Who is she?" said Mr. Benson.
"She's Thomas Geraghty's mother," said Matty, "that's been bedridden these ten years, and hasn't the right use of her legs."
She had, apparently, the full use of her tongue. Lieutenant Eckersley, who was standing near the door, ventured the opinion that she was still cursing.
"She is not," said Matty, "but she's telling me that every beast on the island was took ashore last night and left in Peter Reilly's field, the way I wouldn't be able to get at them."
"I wouldn't be surprised," said Mr. Benson, "if she was telling you the truth."
"Ask her," said Lieutenant Eckersley, "if it was the fishing-boats from Ballymore that landed the cattle for them last night."
"If it was," said Matty Hynes, "she'd have more sense than to tell me."
"In any case," said Mr. Benson, "we may as well be going home." ​
"I'll take the young pig that's beyond with me, anyway," said Matty Hynes.
The pig, trusting apparently to his powers of escape, had scorned to conceal himself. He was still rooting in the manure heap when the party returned to his home. This time Matty Hynes made careful plans for his capture. He and the two bailiffs approached the manure heap from three different directions and closed in slowly on their prey. The pig, with contempt in his eye, waited until they were quite near him, and then bolted unexpectedly past Matty Hynes. He had, the night before, successfully evaded capture when chased by all the fishermen from Ballymure, the three Geraghtys, and the fourteen children. He felt perfectly confident of being able to escape from Matty Hynes and the two bailiffs. But Matty was a crafty and determined man. Perhaps, also, the pig was overconfident. After a chase which lasted half an hour, he was hemmed into a corner between his sty and the wall of the house. There seemed no way of escape. Every rush for freedom ended in failure, and the rushes got shorter each time, as the bailiffs and Matty closed in. Lieutenant Eckersley, greatly excited, followed Matty closely, and peered over his shoulder to see the end. Matty stooped and grasped the pig round the neck. Then an unexpected thing happened. The pig made a furious rush between Matty's legs. He clung to its neck, he tottered backward, tripped over Lieutenant ​Eckersley, and fell, still clinging tightly to the pig. Lieutenant Eckersley also fell.
The double accident happened in a particularly dirty corner of the yard in front of the cottage. When Lieutenant Eckersley got up his beautiful uniform was covered with mud from the collar of his coat to the bottom of his trousers. He swore. Mr. Benson grinned feebly. He did not want to grin, but he did. The police sergeant giggled and then choked. The other members of the force also giggled. Lieutenant Eckersley swore again. Matty Hynes, on the other hand, got up in a very good temper. He was not wearing a beautiful uniform, and he had the pig safe. The police sergeant, repenting of his giggle, pulled a handful of straw out of the thatch of the cottage, and set to work to wipe the mud off Lieutenant Eckersley.
"I'm ready to go home now, any time," said Matty Hynes, hugging the pig. "If I can't get a decent price for him I'll buy him in myself and keep him till he's fat."
"If you think," said Lieutenant Eckersley, "that I'm going to turn the Curlew into a cattle boat to carry your filthy pigs, you're making a big mistake."
"It's joking you are," said Matty Hynes.
"I'll soon show you whether I'm joking. You can either leave that pig behind you, or stay with him yourself, for you'll not bring him on board my boat."
Matty Hynes looked helplessly at Mr. Benson. ​
"I'm here," said Lieutenant Eckersley, "to bring you and your bailiffs to this island, and then fetch you home again. There isn't a word in my orders about carrying pigs. It's against all the regulations, and I won't do it."
"He has you there, Matty," said Mr. Benson. "You may just as well drop that pig."
On the way home Lieutenant Eckersley, having changed his uniform and regained his self-respect, asked a question of Mr. Benson.
"Would you mind telling me," he said, "how much money the people of that island actually owe? It can't be much, to judge by the look of the place."
"Two pounds, seven shillings and fourpence," said Mr. Benson.
"What?"
"Two pounds, seven shillings and fourpence," said Mr. Benson, slowly and distinctly.
"Well, I'm hanged! Do you mean to tell me——? I've steamed all the way from Queenstown—the coal alone—your five men—you—me—one of his Majesty's ships—and——"
"And the price of a new uniform for you," said Mr. Benson.
"All for the sake of two pounds, seven shillings and fourpence."
"And in the end we didn't get it," said Mr. Benson, "though we'd have cleared half the money, anyhow, if you would have let Matty Hynes bring the pig he caught. It wouldn't have done you any arm. ​He'd have nursed it in his arms the whole way like a baby."
"Two pounds, seven shillings and fourpence!" said Lieutenant Eckersley.
Mr. Benson saw his opportunity for taking revenge for the snubs he had suffered in the morning.
"Of course you naval men are bound to keep up your dignity," he said. "But even if the pig had been let run loose about your cabin he wouldn't have made more of a mess of that uniform of yours. I almost fancy I can smell it from here."
But Lieutenant Eckersley had no spirit left for self-assertion.
"Two pounds, seven shillings and fourpence," he murmured. "Good Lord!"