There was William Breeze, who was a little hard of hearing, but loyal to the core.  He had seven boys in his family, so there was still hope for the nation.  There was Patrick Mooney, who should have been wearing the other color if there is anything in a name.  But there isn’t.  There was John Burns, who had been an engineer, but, having lost a foot, had taken to farming.  He was the farthest advanced in the order next to Thomas Shouldice, having served a term as District Grand Master, and was well up in the Grand Black Chapter.  These would form the nucleus of the procession.  The seven little Breezes would be admitted to the ranks if their mother could find suitable decoration for them.  Of course, the weather was warm and the subject of clothing was not so serious as it might have been.

Thomas drove nineteen miles to the nearest town to get a speaker and a fifer.  The fifer was found, and, quite fortunately, was open for engagement.  The speaker was not so easily secured.  Thomas went to the Methodist missionary.  The missionary was quite a young man and had the reputation of being an orator.  He listened gravely while his visitor unfolded his plan.

“I’ll tell you what to do, Mr. Shouldice,” he said, smiling, when the other had finished the recital of his country’s wrongs.  “Get Father O’Flynn; he’ll make you a speech that will do you all good.”

Thomas was too astonished for words.  “But he’s a Papist!” he sputtered at last.

“Oh, pshaw!  Oh, pshaw!  Mr. Shouldice,” the young man exclaimed; “there’s no division of creed west of Winnipeg.  The little priest does all my sick visiting north of the river, and I do his on the south.  He’s a good preacher, and the finest man at a deathbed I ever saw.”

“This is not a deathbed, though, as it happens,” Thomas replied, with dignity.

The young minister threw back his head and laughed uproariously.  “Can’t tell that until it is over—­I’ve been at a few Orange walks down East, you know—­took part in one myself once.”

“Did you walk?” Thomas asked, brightening.

“No, I ran,” the minister said, smiling.

“I thought you said you took part,” Thomas snorted, with displeasure.

“So I did, but mine was a minor part.  I stood behind the fence and helped the Brennan boys and Patrick Costigan to peg at them!”

“Are ye a Protestant at all?” Thomas roared at him, now thoroughly angry.

“Yes, I am,” the minister said, slowly, “and I am something better still; I am a Christian and a Canadian.  Are you?”

Thomas beat a hasty retreat.

The Presbyterian minister was away from home, and the English Church minister—­who was also a young man lately arrived—­said he would go gladly.