“Yes, this is a soviet,” said John Cronin, the carpenter who was father of the baby soviet.  “Why did we form it?  Why do we pit people’s rule against military rule?  Of course, as workers, we are against all military.  But our particular grievance against the British military is this:  when the town was unjustly proclaimed, the cordon was drawn to leave out a factory part of town that lies beyond the bridges.  We had to ask the soldiers for permits to earn our daily bread.

“You have seen how we have thrown the crank into production.  But some activities are permitted to continue.  Bakers are working under our orders.  The kept press is killed, but we have substituted our own paper.”  He held up a small sheet which said in large letters:  The Workers’ Bulletin Issued by the Limerick Proletariat.

“We’ve distributed food and slashed prices.  The farmers send us their produce.  The food committee has been able to cut down prices:  eggs, for instance, are down from a dollar to sixty-six cents a dozen and milk from fourteen to six cents a quart.

“In a few days we will engrave our own money.  Beside there will be an influx of money from England.  About half the workers are affiliated to English unions and entitled to strike pay.  We have, by the way, felt the sympathy of the union men in the army sent to guard us.  A whole Scotch regiment had to be sent home because it was letting workers go back and forth without passes.

“And—­we have told no one else—­the national executive council of the Irish Labor party and Trade Union congress will change its headquarters from Dublin to Limerick.  Then if military rule isn’t abrogated, a general strike of the entire country will be called.”

Just here a boy with imaginative brown eyes, who was, I discovered later, the editor of the Workers’ Bulletin, said suddenly: 

“There!  Isn’t that enough to tell the young lady?  How do we know that she is not from Scotland Yard?”

In order to send my wire on the all-Ireland strike, I stumbled along dark streets till I came to the postoffice.  Lantern light was streaming from a hatchway open in the big iron door in the rear.  “Who comes?” challenged the guards.  While I was giving a most conversational reply, a dashing officer ran up and told me the password to the night telegraph room.  Streets were deserted when I attempted to find my way back to the hotel.  At last I saw a cloaked figure separate itself from the column post box against which it was standing.  I asked my way and discovered I was talking to a member of the Black Watch.  Limerick is the only town in the British Isles that retains the ancient custom of a civilian night guard.  While the strike was on, there were, during the day, 600 special Royal Irish constables on duty in Limerick.  But, at night, in spite of unlit streets, the 600 constables gave place to the sixty men of the Black Watch.