Jimmy O’Loughlin was certainly not guilty of raising any false hopes about the quality of his cattle or his vehicles; but Mr. Goddard had a feeling of cold disgust when he saw the two cars standing together outside the railway station. Jimmy O’Loughlin’s mare was the better of the two animals, and she looked extraordinary feeble and depressed. The grey pony, which should have been drawing home Mr. Byrne’s turf, was clearly unfit for the journey before him. He may have been fretting for the loss of Patsy Devlin. He may have been insufficiently fed by Mrs. Devlin. He looked as if his spirit was completely broken either by starvation or great grief. The cars were dilapidated, and the harness evidently untrustworthy. On the other hand the drivers were full of life and vigour. They looked forward to receiving handsome tips from the strangers at the end of their day’s work, and were quite prepared to earn them by saying all the things which tourists expect from Irish car drivers. They were primed with stories of the most popular kind about every point of interest along the road. They had a store of bulls and humorous repartees ready to their lips. They touched their hats jauntily to Mr. Goddard as he passed them. He was a benefactor, and they owed him respect and thanks.
The train drew up at the platform. The door of a first-class compartment was flung open, and a gentleman bounded from it. His face expressed a feeling of irresponsible holiday happiness. His movements and the pose of his body suggested abundant vitality and energy. He turned and assisted three ladies to alight. One, the youngest of them, he lifted out in his arms and deposited three or four paces from the carriage door. He laughed merrily as he did so. She also laughed. The other two ladies, who had not been embraced, laughed. The holiday spirit was strong in all of them. Then, still laughing, he turned to the carriage again, and received from some one inside a number of bags, boxes, coats and parcels. He took them two by two and laid them in a long row at the feet of the ladies. Then a second gentleman got out of the train, a long, lean man, of sallow complexion and serious expression.
Mr. Goddard felt that it was time to introduce himself. He approached the party cautiously, skirting an outlying hold-all. The first gentleman, who was also a good deal the younger of the two, spied him coming and bounded forward to meet him.
“You are Mr. Goddard,” he said joyously. “I’m sure you must be. I’m delighted to meet you. My name is Dick, surname, you know. Christian name similar—Richard Dick, M.P., not yet in the Cabinet.”
He had to the highest possible degree that air of breezy joviality assumed by many Englishmen when they cross St. George’s Channel. It was as if, having at last reached the land of frolicsome recklessness, he was determined to show himself capable of wild excess and a very extremity of Celtic fervour.
Mr. Goddard bowed, and murmured that he felt it a pleasure and an honour to make Mr. Dick’s acquaintance.
“This,” said Mr. Dick, “is Mr. Sanders. Sorrowful Sanders we call him, on account of the expression of his face. He’s not in the Cabinet either; but he soon will be.” He caught Mr. Goddard by the arm and whispered a clearly audible aside. “He’s a Scot, and that’s nearly the same thing, you know.”
“Shut up, Dick!” said Mr. Sanders.
“How can you talk such nonsense?” said the eldest of the three ladies, whose appearance suggested some strength of character, and suddenly brought back Miss Blow to Mr. Goddard’s mind.