Argosy (UK), January 1955 — page 131: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

CAPTAIN LIGHTFOOT 129 of doors and a clatter of boot-heels; and when the Lord-Lieutenant’s men appeared, pale and nervous, with pistols cocked and sabres bared, taking no chances in this macabre hell of the deepest stews, there were only a few ragged men at the bars, and a few playing cards quietly, sucking on old pipes, and a few rolling dice, sailors from the quays mostly—and no real prey at all: not even a low pimp or pickpocket wanted for escaping from gaol. No one spoke a word to the Lord-Lieutenant’s men. Big Tom followed them about calmly, smoking a short clay pipe and spitting contemptuously from time to time. And the Lord-Lieutenant’s men were not quite so thorough here as elsewhere. Clagett’s end had not gone unremarked, and not one of the Lord-Lieutenant’s men had the least desire to face his Maker. They left with a clatter of warlike sabres. You would think that a man of Lord Clonmel’s delicate nurturing would be appalled by Nine Steps, but this was not the fact. He looked at everything with deep interest, and he seemed to be especially taken with Big Tom, the ex-heavyweight champion of Ireland, James Mahony, the ex-pirate, and particularly with Michael’s place of hiding, the Fort. Michael’s latest project had come to him in a dream, and on waking, he had leapt violently out of bed, in spite of his game leg, and danced about, shouting: ‘“‘ Tom, get Trim, Mahony—right away! I’ve got the most wonderful idea in the world! ” And now Michael broached his project to Clonmel, who sat listening in stunned silence, taking a minute pinch of snuff from time to time; and when Michael was all through, he carefully brushed the front of his coat with a handkerchief and inquired: ** And you yourself, Captain? Are you so anxious to hang, then? ”’ “Oh, I'll not hang,” shouted Michael. “Don’t give that a second thought.” Clonmel rose and began to mince about the room, flicking his handkerchief here and there, and finally, to Michael’s surprise, he threw back his head and laughed as raucously as a parrot. *T’'ll do it!’ he cried. ‘“* Good,” said Michael. ‘‘ Tonight.” Clonmel recoiled slightly. “‘ So soon? ”’ **'The sooner the better.” Now Clonmel turned and studied Michael’s face for a long while. “There is no way I could refuse, Captain. I tell you, the duel with Hood endeared you to me for ever.’ At eight o’clock that evening a sumptuous, crested, six-horse coach, with liveried postilion, driver, and boot, was admitted at the big gate of Dublin Castle, but halted inside by red-coated guards. Clonmel leaned out and screamed at them: ‘“‘ Stand aside, boobies! What—stop Lord Clonmel? ” The guards paled and glanced into the coach. In the far corner sat a monk in a dirty habit and cowl. Clonmel slapped the captain of the guard across the face with a document. ‘‘ Here, ” he shouted comichooks, com