Mrs. Lushington and Miss Douglas could no more part company than they could smoke. Till they should arrive at their joint destination, they must be inseparable as the Siamese twins, or the double-headed Nightingale. Therefore were they more than usually endearing and affectionate, therefore the carman who drove them through Dublin, from station to station, approved heartily of their "nateral affection," as he called it, wishing, to use his own words, that he was "brother to either of them, or husband to both!"
If they sparred at all, it was with the gloves—light hitting, and only to measure each other's reach. Some day,—the same idea occurred to them at the same moment,—they meant to "have it out" in earnest, and it should be no child's play then. Meantime they proceeded to take their places in a fast train which seemed to have no particular hour of departure, so long was it drawn up beside the platform after the passengers had seated themselves and the doors were locked. Miss Douglas possessed good nerves, no doubt, yet were they somewhat shaken by a dialogue she overheard between guard and station-master, carried on through many shrieks and puffings of the engine at the first halt they made, a few miles down the line.
"Is the express due, Denis?"
"She is."
"Is the mail gone by?"
"She would be, but she's broke intirely."
"Is the line clear?"
"It is not."
"Go on, boys, an' trust in God!"