“The divil a fut,” answered the fellow, sullenly.
Hayes controlled his anger by an effort. There was nothing to be gained by a row with the man. He turned to another driver.
“Pick up that portmanteau. Drive me out to Mr. Connolly’s. I’ll pay double fare.”
But they all with one consent, like the guests in the parable, began to make excuse. One man’s horse was lame, another’s car was broken down; the services of a third had been “bespoke.” Few were as frank as the man first engaged, but all were prompt with the obvious lies, scarcely less aggravating than actual rudeness. The station-master appeared, and attempted to use his influence in the traveller’s behalf, but he effected nothing.
“You’ll have to walk, sir,” said the official, civilly. “I’ll keep your portmanteau here till Mr. Connolly sends for it.” And he carried the luggage back into the station.
“How far is it to Mr. Connolly’s?” Harold inquired of a ragged urchin who had strolled up with several companions.
“Fish an’ find out,” answered the youngster, with a grin.
“We’ll tache them to be sendin’ Emergency men down here,” said another.
The New-Yorker was fast losing patience.
“This is Irish hospitality and native courtesy,” he remarked, bitterly. “Will any one tell me the road I am to follow?”