"My mother," I said. "She came down for the Easter holidays and has not been able to get away. She's probably terrified out of her senses as she has the two youngest children with her."
"She's probably hungry, too," he said. "Did you bring her food?"
"No," I said. "But we brought her money."
"Food would have been better," he said. "People who live on the outskirts of Dublin are in a bad way. They've always depended on Dublin for their supplies. They can get none now. I've just been to Drogheda for bread."
"To Drogheda for bread," I repeated in amazement.
"Yes," he said. "It's no joke to have to go twenty-five miles for bread. Weren't you two girls afraid to come down here?"
"We had to come," I said simply. "Papa couldn't come so he sent us."
All this time we had been spinning along at a splendid rate. We were cooled off and feeling rested. Suddenly the man slowed up the machine. "Hello, what's this?" he said. We followed his gaze and saw that the telegraph wires had been completely cut through; not one wire was left together. "Hm," he said. "We must make a note of that and keep our eyes open for more." There was no more conversation after that for some time. On our way we saw the wires cut in two places.
After some time we came to a village. There was a guard of soldiers patrolling the street in front of a building. When we came nearer we saw that it was the police barracks; and that the windows were broken and the street strewn with telegraph wires.