“‘Think of his poor soul,’ says the priest.
“‘I’ll hold ye responsible for his life,’ says the doctor.
“‘Wirra, I can’t,’ says poor Whalen, and calls up Tim. ‘Tell his riverence, Tim,’ says he, ‘tell his riverence and the doctor that I can’t be disobeying orders.... And begorra, she’s due this minute! Up into the signal-box with you. And down with that signal, so the express can get by,’ says he. And as Tim starts off at a great pace, Whalen shouts after him, ‘And I’m sure I hope ye’ll get it to work, Tim, for it’s terrible stiff it is, that same signal, and it at danger!’
“Well, whether he had winked at Tim, or what, but Tim worked and worked.
“‘I can’t get it to move,’ he says. ‘Will you come up yourself, Mr. Whalen, sir, and have a try?’
“And, oh,” says Miss Margaret, in fits of laughter, “the way the two of them went on in that signal-box, and the way Whalen pumped and pulled, and at last he cries, ‘There’s no help for it, it’s stuck! And sure the company can’t blame me, if the machinery’s out of order,’ says he. ‘Well, there’s wan good thing, your riverence, the thrain ’ull have to stop now, anyhow.’”
We laugh a good deal during those pleasant meals at Kilcoultra. Not one dull moment does the house hold for us, and we don’t want any better company than that of the two dear ladies.
“We’ve got,” Miss Caroline, the elder, explains to me carefully, “a very careful coachman, a very steady man, so you needn’t be the least nervous driving out with us. He was selected, indeed, because he could be trusted. It wouldn’t do for us unprotected women, you know,” she says in all seriousness, “to be risking our necks with a tipsy coachman.”
Two days we are driven by this paragon. The third day there sits a stranger on the box.
“I hope,” says Miss Carrie apologetically, “that you don’t mind his being out of livery.”