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Page 3
* * * * *
[Illustration: "WANTED."
HOLLAND. "SO YOU SAY YOU'D LIKE ME TO SURRENDER THE EX-KAISER?"
ENTENTE POLICEMAN. "WELL, MA'AM, I DIDN'T GO SO FAR AS THAT. I ONLY _ASKED_
YOU FOR HIM."]
* * * * *
OUR BALLYBUN LOTTERY.
[_� propos_ of Premium Bonds it has been recalled that in his evidence,
given some years ago before a Select Committee, the then Under-
Secretary for Ireland stated that in that distressful country
"lotteries are very much used for religious purposes by people of all
denominations," and that "it would be flying in the face of public
opinion, especially of the great religious bodies, to interfere with
them."]
Murphy has given up charity for ever. He was perhaps fuller of this virtue
than any other body in Ballybun, and his house was packed with things he
had won at raffles. When a brick tore a hole in the Orange drum our
Presbyterian pastor at once got up a bazaar for repairs to the chapel, and
Murphy won the finest silver tea-service this side of the Aran Islands.
Murphy knew no distinctions of race, creed or sex in the holy cause of
charity. When our Methodist minister, who is universally popular, as his
knowledge of a horse would be a credit to any denomination, got up an
Auction Bridge Drive in aid of the Anti-Gambling League, Murphy came home
with three pink antimacassars, a discourse by JEREMY TAYLOR and two months'
pay out of the pocket of McDougal, the organist, who seems to play cards by
ear. But Nemesis was lying in ambush for Murphy.
Three old ladies in Trim decided to get up a Tombola for the poor this
winter, and of course they sent Murphy a sheaf of tickets. As lotteries are
illegal they, being pious, hated them; anyway they decided to call it a
Tombola. They got the whole of Ireland to send them prizes, articles of
vertu and bric-�-brac, and any other old things that are of no use to
anybody, The carriage on the stuff and the printer's bill nearly ruined the
charitable ladies, but, as they said, the Tombola would pay all the
expenses, and if they could knock any more out of it the poor should have
it.
If you sold a dozen tickets you could keep the thirteenth for yourself, and
as Murphy, on account of his charity, was so popular he must have sold
hundreds. People seemed to have an idea that the raffle was for a gondola,
and they thought it would look beautiful on the pond in front of the Town
Hall. Unfortunately our local poetess confirmed this error by writing a
poem about it called "Italy in Ireland," which was produced in _The
Ballybun Binnacle_, with a misprint about the gondolier's "untanned sole,"
which caused a fracas in the editorial office.
Murphy explained to all concerned that perhaps his Italian was rusty, and
anyway his time was so taken up reading lottery-tickets and other
charitable literature that he never knew what it was all for. It was a
Tombola, however, this time, and not a gondola, they were subscribing for.
It was a kind of Italian lottery which the police didn't mind because the
prizes were not in money or anything of value, but just Old Masters and
brick-bracks. Murphy has such a way with him that the editor and the
poetess each took a dozen tickets.
When the result of the draw was published Murphy won six prizes, but no one
grudged him them as he had taken so much trouble. The Grand Prize, a
"statue carved by an Italian artist, the finest bit of sculpture ever seen
in Ireland," was won by our popular grocer, Mr. McAroon. We were all
delighted. People trooped in crowds to McAroon's back-door after closing-
time to toll him so. The police took their names, but the magistrates, who
have a great respect for the fine arts, said that this was a day in the
artistic development of the Cinderella of the West which automatically and
_prim� facie_ regularised an extension of closing-hours.
McAroon said that his religion did not run much to statues, but that, to
show his tolerance to all denominations, especially to those on his books,
he would have it unveiled by his Minister. He would invite the Bishop and
all men of goodwill to be present at the ceremony. He would place it in the
corner of his garden overlooking the esplanade, where it would cheer the
simple mariners coming home after their arduous fishing toils, and perhaps
remind one or two of them (but he would mention no names) of a dozen or so
of porter that had been left unpaid for after a recent wedding.
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