to his lips again.

"If you blow that thing," said the clergyman, "before I'm in the train,
I'll take an action against the company for assault and battery."

The guard hesitated. He did not see how such an action could be
sustained in court; but he felt the necessity of thinking over his
position carefully before running any risks. The law, especially in
Ireland, is a curious thing, and no wise man entangles himself with it
if he can help it. Railway guards are all wise men, otherwise they
would not have risen to their high positions.

"Now that I am here," said the clergyman, "I may as well go by this
train. Excuse me one moment; I want to get a few newspapers."

This was gross impertinence, and the guard was in no mood to stand it.
He blew his whistle. The engine shrieked excitedly, and the train
started with a violent jerk.

The clergyman seized a handful of newspapers from the bookstall.
Clinging to them and his bag he ran across the platform. He tried the
doors of two third-class compartments as they passed him, and found
them locked. He happened next upon that which was occupied by Miss
King, opened the door, and tumbled in.

"I've only got a third-class ticket," he said cheerfully; "but I shall
travel first class the whole way now, and I shan't pay a penny of
excess fare."

"Won't they make you?" said Miss King.

She realised that she had found an unexpectedly early opportunity of
studying the peculiarities of the Irish character, and determined to
make the most of it.

"Certainly not," said the clergyman. "The position is this. I have a
through ticket--I bought it yesterday--which entitles me to travel on
this railway to Donard. If the doors of all the third-class carriages
are locked when I arrive at the station, I take it that the company
means me to travel first class. Their own action is a clear indication
of their intention. There isn't a jury in Ireland would give it
against me, even if the case came into court, which, of course, it
won't."

"I'm going to Donard, too," said Miss King.

"Are you? It's a wretched hole of a place. I don't advise you to stop
there long."

"I'm not staying there at all. I'm driving straight on to Ballymoy."

"If you're at all familiar with Ballymoy, I expect you've heard of me.
My name's Meldon, the Reverend J. J. Meldon, B.A. I was curate of
Ballymoy once, and everybody who was there in my time will be talking
about me still. I'm going back