At this point Maggie O’Hare arrived breathlessly, having just become aware of her son’s peril—with some difficulty, owing to six of her friends having excitedly explained the matter together. To an unprejudiced onlooker, it would have seemed that her principal maternal emotion was horror at finding her offspring perched on Jim’s shoulder. “Come down out of that, Micky—have behaviour, now, an’ don’t be throublin’ the gentleman! Put him down, sir—I’d not have you annoyed with him.” She received Micky with much apparent wrath, but her arms were tight round the little body. “Isn’t it the rascal he is!—an’ I but lettin’ him out of me hand that minute, the way I’d be feedin’ the goose!” In England, Jim had learned to give tips; and for a moment his hand sought his pocket. Fortunately, he checked the impulse in time. The woman’s eyes met his with the good breeding that lends something of dignity to the poorest Irish peasant. “He’s a great boy,” he said, in his pleasant voice. “Not a bit of fear in him—have you, Micky?” He lifted his cap, and said “Good-bye,” striding back to the motor. They moved on, slowly, leaving the little town seething behind them. “It isn’t altogether without incident to drive through a fair!” said O’Neill, dreamily. Towards evening they came to their halting-place for the night—a grey village, nestling among brown hills. “The inn used to be very fair, but one can’t guarantee anything in war-time,” Sir John remarked. “Of course it isn’t big enough to suffer from the complaint that suddenly affected all the important hotels—the hurried departure of French cooks and German waiters. Many hotel-keepers will speak until the end of their lives, with tears in their voices, about the awful day when Henri and Gaston, and Fritz and Karl, the props of their establishment, dropped their aprons and fled to their respective Fatherlands. You can’t convince those hotel-keepers that they do not know all about the horrors of war!” “This little place doesn’t suggest imported cooks and waiters,” said Mr. Linton. “No, as I remember it, the landlady was the cook, and her daughter the housemaid; and a nondescript gentleman of the ‘odd-boy’ type doubled the parts of boots, barkeeper, groom, and waiter, with any other varieties of usefulness that might be demanded of him. And there he is still, by the same token, bringing in a load of turf.” Sir John indicated a wiry little man leading a shambling old black horse bearing two creels slung across his back, piled high with sods. He turned into the back gateway of the inn as they drew up at the front door; and, hearing the motor, cast a glance over his shoulder, realized the presence of guests, and administered a sounding slap on the black horse’s quarter, disappearing hurriedly. They heard his voice, shrilly summoning the unseen. “Is himself within?—let ye hurry! There’s a pack of gentry at the door, in a mothor-car!” And a voice yet more shrill: