“There’s soldiers got into the train at this station,” said the guard, in a friendly explanatory tone, “and the way things is it wouldn’t suit us to be going on, as long as them ones,” he pointed to the rear of the train with his thumb, “stays where they are.”
“But—oh, hang it all!—if the train doesn’t go on I shall miss the mail boat at Kingstown, and if I’m not in London to-morrow morning I shall lose the best part of £1,000 a year.”
“That would be a pity now,” said the guard. “And I’d be sorry for any gentleman to be put to such a loss. But what can we do? The way things is at the present time it wouldn’t suit either the driver or me to be taking the train on while there’d be soldiers in it. It’s queer times we’re having at present and that’s a fact.”
The extreme queerness of the times offered no kind of consolation to Tom O’Donovan. But he knew it was no good arguing with the guard.
He contented himself with the fervent expression of an opinion which he honestly held.
“It would be a jolly good thing for everybody,” he said, “if the English army and the Irish Republic and your silly war and every kind of idiot who goes in for politics were put into a pot together and boiled down for soup.”
He turned and walked away. As he went he heard the guard expressing mild agreement with his sentiment.
“It might be,” said the guard. “I wouldn’t say but that might be the best in the latter end.”
Tom O’Donovan, having failed with the guard and the engine driver, made up his mind to try what he could do with the soldiers. He was not very hopeful of persuading them to leave the train; but his position was so nearly desperate that he was unwilling to surrender any chance. He found a smart young sergeant and six men of the Royal Wessex Light Infantry seated in a third-class carriage. They wore shrapnel helmets, and their rifles were propped up between their knees.
“Sergeant,” said Tom, “I suppose you know you are holding up the whole train.”