‟WE ought to be nearly there,” said Jim.
“ ‘Ought’ seems to be the last argument that counts on this railway line,” his father answered. “What grounds have you for your fond belief?”
“It’s not time-tables,” his son admitted. “They wore out long ago; I scrapped them when they got to the stage when reading them only led to despair. Partly I’m hoping that the guard wasn’t merely trying to keep up my spirits when he told me we’d get to Killard at three o’clock if Jamesy Doyle wasn’t late with his milk-cans at Ballymoe; only he added that ’twas the bad little ass Jamesy had, and if it lay down in the cart how would the poor man be in time?”
“And will they wait for Jamesy and his cans?” queried Wally.
“Most certainly, I should think. Passengers are just odd happenings, to the guard; but Jamesy is married to a woman that’s the cousin of his wife’s aunt, and the guard evidently has a strong family sense. This train exists as much to carry Jamesy’s cans as anything else. However, there’s Ballymoe, and the gentleman on the platform looks as if he might be Jamesy. And there’s the ass in the cart outside, standing up. I expect it’s all right.”
The little train drew slowly into the wayside station, and the guard, descending, wrung the hand of the somnolent gentleman enthroned upon the milk-cans. Together they proceeded to load them into the van, but being overcome by argument in the middle of the operation, relinquished work, sat down on the cans, and gave themselves up to the delights of conversation. The Linton family got out, and walked along the platform. They had been travelling from early morning into the wilds of Donegal, and, since leaving the main line for a succession of local trains, had grown well accustomed to these sociable delays. Presently the engine-driver and his fireman left their engine and joined the discussion on the milk-cans. Norah strolled to the road and scratched the ass gently, a proceeding accepted by the ass without resentment, but without enthusiasm. Time went by.
The gathering on the platform dissolved itself after a while, the first move being made by Mr. Jamesy Doyle, who remarked that his wife’d be tearing the hair off of him, and she waiting for him for dinner.
“She’ll not wait long on ye; I know that one!” said the guard.
“She will, then; sure, haven’t I it bought in the little cart yonder?” said Jamesy, with the calmness of certainty. He assisted to place the remainder of his property in the van, and the guard, addressing Norah with enormous politeness, mentioned that when she was quite ready the train would go on. “Let you not be hurrying yourself—sure we’re that late already as makes no difference,” he added, pleasantly. They climbed in, and the little train clanged and rattled on its way.
At the next station two energetic men in tweed suits descended hurriedly from the one first-class smoking-carriage and demanded their bicycles, which had been put in an empty truck—the train being of the type known as a “mixed goods.” Thereafter arose sounds of wrath and vituperation.