In such agreeable reveries I passed the first hour of the journey; when, to my unfeigned relief, on reaching Antrim my fellow-traveller quitted the carriage. No doubt his object was a sinister one, and when I saw him speak to the constable at the station, I had no doubt in my own mind that my liberty was not worth five minutes’ purchase. But even so, anything seemed better than his basilisk eye in the corner of the carriage.
I hastily prepared my defence and resolved on a dignified refusal to criminate myself under any provocation. What were they doing? To my horror, the “detective,” the constable, the guard, and the station-master all advanced on my carriage.
“In there?” said the official.
My late fellow-traveller nodded. The station-master opened the door and entered the carriage. I was in the act of opening my lips to say—
“I surrender myself—there is no occasion for violence,” when the station-master laid his hand on the hat-box.
“It’s labelled to C—,” he said; “take it along, guard, and put it out there. He’s sure to come on by the next train. Right away there!”
Next moment we were off. What did it all mean? I was not under arrest! Nobody had noticed me; but McCrane’s hat-box had engaged the attention of four public officials.
“Free and easy way of doing things on this line,” said an Englishman in the carriage; “quite the regular thing for a man and his luggage to go by different trains. Always turns up right in the end. Are you going to Derry, sir?” he added addressing me.
“No,” said I, hastily. “I’m getting out at the next station.”
“What—at —” and he pronounced the name something like “Tobacco.”