Martin yielded the reins and leaned against his side of the wagon and was soon snoring. Nelson, blinking to keep his eyes open, slouched sleepily in his seat with loose lines. Once he was startled by the sound of a vehicle coming from ahead in the gloom, the first they had met, and pulled the reins hurriedly to make room for it to pass. Perhaps the lines were crossed and he steered the horses toward the center of the road. At all events, there was a sound of colliding hubs followed by a fine collection of oaths delivered in a rich Irish brogue. Nelson was much too sleepy to offer apology or explanation and the unknown but eloquent traveler rattled on into the night, complimentary to the last.
Shortly after midnight they rumbled across a bridge and onto the cobbles of a fair-sized village. By now it was possible to see the horses’ heads and a corresponding distance on all sides and Nelson awoke Martin from his slumber. The town seemed utterly dark and deserted until, presently, the street on which they traveled turned abruptly and a lantern above a doorway confronted them with the startling legend: “Police.” Beyond it a few lights showed dimly in another building and from somewhere in the darkness further away a train was being shunted along a track. Martin viewed the police station doubtfully and went past. The next collection of lights came from the lower floor of a small hotel. It didn’t look very hospitable, but nevertheless Martin stopped the horses—he experienced no difficulty—climbed down and disappeared from sight. Nelson heard a door open and close. He lolled on the seat and nodded in the faint radiance of the lighted windows. After an interminable time Martin returned.
“Nothing doing,” he said gruffly, climbing back. “The old geezer wanted to fight me for waking him up. Nothing to eat until the kitchen opens at five-thirty in the morning. Didn’t even invite me to wait.”
“I don’t care,” groaned Nelson. “I’ve lost interest in food. But couldn’t we get beds in there?”
“Maybe, but I wouldn’t patronize his old den, anyway. We’ll find a place along the road and turn in and go to sleep with the dynamite. Get ap, horses!”
The horses awoke, sighed loudly and settled against the harness again and the wagon rumbled on through the silent, darkened streets.
CHAPTER XVII
BOYS IN KHAKI
Just as the sun broke forth from the bank of mist that trailed its gray banners along the hillsides to the east a squeaking wagon, drawn by a pair of thin, decrepit looking white horses and occupied by two youths in what remained of the blue uniforms of United States sailors, drew up in front of police headquarters in Queenstown. It was too early for many of the citizens to be abroad, although here and there a sleepy pedestrian cast a vacantly curious stare at the odd apparition. From the seat one of the occupants yielded the frayed lines and got down stiffly, disappearing into the station. Those few early persons who paused to witness subsequent events were forced to wait for a good ten minutes. Then the youth in sailor togs, whose left sleeve bore an eagle above crossed cannons, done in white, and a single scarlet chevron below, emerged once more in company with two stalwart “Bobbies.” A hasty glance into the back of the wagon, and the jaded horses were again started and the whole outfit disappeared behind the gates and was lost to view of the curious observers.
Five minutes later a police sergeant was very gingerly introducing a chisel under the lid of the nearest box on the wagon. The sergeant looked a bit unhappy, for Martin had innocently advanced the possibility of the cases containing explosives. At each creak of the lid as it gave to the chisel the sergeant flinched perceptibly, while his companion edged the fraction of an inch further into the background. Even Nelson was none too certain that a nice collection of dynamite bombs or guncotton cylinders was not about to reward their investigation. But in a moment a sigh of relief went up from the sergeant as the lid gave at last and revealed the contents.