CHAPTER XXX
THE MOATE STATION
The train by which Miss Betty O’Shea expected her nephew was late in its arrival at Moate, and Peter Gill, who had been sent with the car to fetch him over, was busily discussing his second supper when the passengers arrived.
‘Are you Mr. Gorman O’Shea, sir?’ asked Peter of a well-dressed and well-looking young man, who had just taken his luggage from the train.
‘No; here he is,’ replied he, pointing to a tall, powerful young fellow, whose tweed suit and billycock hat could not completely conceal a soldierlike bearing and a sort of compactness that comes of ‘drill.’
‘That’s my name. What do you want with me?’ cried he, in a loud but pleasant voice.
‘Only that Miss Betty has sent me over with the car for your honour, if it’s plazing to you to drive across.’
‘What about this broiled bone, Miller?’ asked O’Shea. ‘I rather think I like the notion better than when you proposed it.’
‘I suspect you do,’ said the other; ‘but we’ll have to step over to the “Blue Goat.” It’s only a few yards off, and they’ll be ready, for I telegraphed them from town to be prepared as the train came in.’
‘You seem to know the place well.’