"What became of the tipsy porter who guided them in?" asked my father.
"He lay flat down, and the train went over him—he was dismissed—but how did you know, sir?"
"Because this lady and myself were the two people who were in the tube," said my father. "I assure you we remember the incident very well indeed."
That is what most people would, call a "curious coincidence," and it is, moreover, quite true.
But we are nearing Holyhead. Our "Wild Irishman" has not far to run now. We are through the "Britannia" bridge, upon whose unfinished summit we have raced on slippery plates of iron, one hundred feet above the straits, and gazed down into the Menai waters beneath, as the ships went up almost touching the tube apparently. Ah! this was many years ago, and even now as we rattle on we can recall the scene and shiver.
Away by Llanfair—something—a long Welsh word—away by the lake and the river; over the marsh comes the scent of the sea, and then in ten minutes the "Wild Irishman" walks down the pier. Mail-bags are put on board the steamer; passengers hurry down; the carriage doors are shut. The paddle-wheels revolve; we quit the harbour of Holyhead, and lose sight of the "Wild Irishman."
MASTER TOM'S "RAINY WEATHER."
"Ettie," said Master Tom, "do you like to be naughty or good?"
"Naughty," replied Ettie promptly.