“You would be doing me a real kindness,” said the other. “I can send word to your friends——” He broke off. “Oh, it’s hardly fair to ask you—you didn’t come here to muddle about with a sick man. Never mind—I’ll get you to come over some day when I’m more fit.”
“I’d like to,” said Wally, cheerfully; “but I’m coming now, as well, if I may.” He hopped into the car, and sat down. “If you could let them know, I should be glad—they may be waiting for me.”
“Where are they?—at the hotel?”
“No, they’re fishing Lough Nacurra. I said I would turn up about twelve and hail them; it’s Australian mail-day, and I’ve been posting the family’s letters.”
“If doesn’t seem fair to keep you,” said the car’s owner. “But these days I dread my own company. So if you’ll come to lunch with me I’ll send you back to them in good time to get a few trout before the evening. Home, Con.” The car started gently, and he leaned back and closed his eyes.
Wally felt slightly bewildered. Here was he, in company with a man whose name he did not know, and who was apparently going to sleep—both of them being whisked through the peaceful Irish landscape at an astonishing rate of speed in a motor which surpassed anything he had ever imagined in luxury of fittings. It was a very large car: four people could easily have found room in the seat he shared with his silent host, and there were, in addition, three little arm-chairs which folded flat when not in use. It was splendidly upholstered, and there were electric lamps in cunning places, and many of what Wally termed “contraptions”; pockets and flaps for holding papers, a clock and speedometer, and a silver vase in which nodded two perfect roses. Wally infinitely preferred horses to motors: but this was indeed a motor to be respected, and he gazed about him with frank interest, which did not abate when he found that his host was looking at him.
“I was admiring your car,” he said. “It’s a beauty; I don’t think I ever saw such a big one.”
“Well, I use it as a bedroom very often,” said the other. “I like knocking about in it; and I hate hotels; so Con and I live in the car when we go touring, and he cooks for me, camp-fashion. This seat makes a very good bed; and I have various travelling fixtures that screw on here and there when they are needed, or live under the seat. I planned it myself, and I don’t think there’s a foot of waste space in it. Con sleeps in the front seat. We have an electric cooker, and he turns out uncommonly good meals. Of course, if we encounter really bad weather we have to put in for shelter, but I’m glad to say that doesn’t often happen to us.”
“How jolly!” Wally exclaimed. “I suppose you’ve been all over Ireland in that way?”
“Ireland—Scotland—England: and most of Europe and America,” said his host. “I’m an idle man, you see, and travelling, if I can do it in my own fashion, makes amends for a good many things I can’t have.” The weariness came back into his face. “I might as well introduce myself,” he said; “I forgot that I had kidnapped you without the civility of telling you my name, which is O’Neill—John O’Neill. I live at Rathcullen House, where we shall be in another minute or two.”