The ostler fell into an attitude of dramatic meditation.
“Would you be agin dhrivin’ a side-car?”
We said “No.”
Equally dramatic ecstasy on the part of both ostler and waiter. The former, strange to say, had a friend who was the one person in Galway who had the very thing we wanted. “Letyees be gettin’ ready now,” said Jimmy, “for I’ll go fetch it this minute.”
About half an hour later we were standing at the hotel doorsteps, prepared for our trial trip. On the pavement were clustered about us the beggarwomen of Galway—an awesome crew, from whose mouths proceeded an uninterrupted flow of blessings and cursings, the former levelled at us, the latter at each other and the children who hung about their skirts. We pushed our way through them, and getting up on the car announced that we were ready to start, but some delay in obtaining a piece of cord to tie up the breeching gave the beggars a precious opportunity. My second cousin was recognised, and greeted by name with every endearment.
“Aha! didn’t I tell ye ’twas her?” “Arrah, shut yer mouth, Nellie Morris. I knew the fine full eyes of her since she was a baby.” “Don’t mind them, darlin’,” said a deep voice on a level with the step of the car; “sure ye’ll give to yer own little Judy from Menlo?”
This was my cousin’s own little Judy from Menlo, and at her invocation we both snatched from our purses the necessary blackmail and dispensed it with furious haste. Most people would pay largely to escape from the appalling presence of this seventy-year-old nightmare of two foot nothing, and she is well aware of its compelling power.
The car started with a jerk, the driver boy running by the horse’s side till he had goaded it into a trot, and then jumping on the driving-seat he lashed it into a gallop, and we swung out of Eyre Square followed by the admiring screams of the beggars. The pace was kept up, and we were well out of Galway before a slightly perceptible hill suddenly changed it to a funeral crawl—the animal’s head disappearing between its forelegs.
“Give me the reins,” said my second cousin. “These country boys never know how to drive,” she added in an undertone as she took them from the boy. The horse, a pale yellow creature, with a rusty black mane and tail, turned his head, and fixing a penetrating eye upon her, slightly slackened his pace. My cousin administered a professional flick of the whip, whereon he shrank to the other side of the road, jamming the step of the car against a telegraph post and compelling me to hurriedly whirl my legs up on to the seat. We slurred over the incident, however, and proceeded at the same pace to the top of the hill. A judicious kick from the boy urged the horse into an amble, and things were going on beautifully when we drew near a pool of water by the roadside.
“You see he goes very well when he is properly driven,” my second cousin began, leaning nonchalantly