Yet at the end of half-an-hour Tom did begin to feel worried. When three-quarters of an hour had passed he became acutely anxious.
“If we don’t get a move on soon,” he said, “I shall miss the boat, and—I say, Jessie, this is getting serious.”
Missing the boat meant missing his appointment in London next morning, and then—why, then Manners would probably give the agency to someone else. Tom opened the door of his carriage and jumped out.
“I’ll speak to the guard,” he said, “and find out what’s the matter.”
The guard, a fat, good-humoured looking man, was talking earnestly to the engine driver. Tom O’Donovan addressed him explosively.
“Why the devil don’t you go on?” he said.
“The train is not going on to-day,” said the guard. “It’ll maybe never go on at all.”
“Why not?”
It was the engine driver who replied. He was a tall, grave man, and he spoke with dignity, as if he were accustomed to making public speeches on solemn occasions.
“This train,” he said, “will not be used for the conveyance of the armed forces of the English Crown, which country is presently at war with the Irish Republic.”