"Ay, the danger of the public and bodily injury to the mayor," cried Noakes. "No option of a fine, neither; you’ll go to jail, sure as my name be Philemon Noakes." "Come, come, now," said O’Reilly, thinking it time to intervene. "Sure, any one could see it was nothing but an accident that might have happened to the Lord Mayor of Dublin himself. You gentlemen have got splashed; faith, so have I. Look at me! The right way to look at it is that we’re all suffering in a good cause—martyrs of science, and I wouldn’t say but we’ve got off lightly." "There’s summat in that, Neighbour Noakes," said a councillor who, being at the rear of the procession, had not come within range of the rotating brushes. "Ay, what I say is, these young fellers what have served their country want to be encouraged, and if so be a little mud flies—why, there ’tis; it will brush off, and ’tis all one." "There’ll be no ’nointing to-day, that’s certain," said another. "Seems to me we’d best all go home along before they get wind of it in the meadow up yonder. None of us wants a crowd ramping round and admiring of our muddy faces. The old stone won’t hurt for want of its drop o’ liquor for once." "That’s true," added a third. "And as for speeches—well, speaking as man to man, speeches are a weariness of the flesh to me. Let’s go home along, neighbours, and drink a drop o’ something hot, with our toes on the fire." The suggestion won favour with the majority, and Noakes, irritably conscious of his unseemly appearance, allowed himself to be escorted towards the town. A few of the more curious waited to see what further antics the road-sweeper performed. But they were disappointed. A brief examination of the mechanism revealed to Templeton the cause of his failure. He made certain adjustments which enabled him to drive the machine home at a moderate pace, and without further experiments with the reversible steering. Eves and O’Reilly followed, prudently, in the cab. "My hat, what a rag!" said Eves to his companion on the way. "But I’m afraid old Bob has come a cropper, poor old boy! It’s not the first time; but I’ll say this for him, he always comes up smiling." "And he’ll smile to a good tune if I don’t be mistaken," said O’Reilly. "He’s got hold of a good idea, and with the help of an engineer friend of mine he’ll make something of it. I’ll see to that." The next week’s local paper contained a copious but by no means a wholly accurate account of the incident. The deplorable appearance of the mayor was described, however, with excessive particularity. Unkindest cut of all, the editor pointed the moral: