“It might easily have been infinitely worse,” Mr. Linton said. “But I’m sorry for the car, O’Neill.” “Oh, the car’s nothing,” Sir John answered, cheerfully. “I’m only sorry for the interruption to our trip. However, things might be more uncomfortable. We’re only three or four miles from Carrignarone, where I meant to stop the night: there is quite a passable inn there, small and homely, but it’s clean and comfortable enough. We could stay there for a few days, while Con goes to Belfast to get what is necessary—that is, if you like. The coast is interesting, and we might get some sea-fishing. Of course, if you thought that too slow, we could drive to the railway, and get back to Killard.” He looked rather wistful. “I had hoped this was going to be such a jolly trip,” he said. “Why, so it is,” Jim responded. “I’m awfully sorry for the damage to the motor, but we’re going to have plenty of fun all the same. It will be rather good fun to be on a coast again, and we’re all keen on sea-fishing. And you know, O’Neill, we wouldn’t make any definite plans, so that the unexpected could take charge of us!” “It has certainly done that,” Sir John said, laughing. “Well, I think the next thing is lunch: a good thing I got the hotel to put us up something, though it will probably be only hard-boiled eggs.” It _was_ hard-boiled eggs, and they ate them merrily, sitting on the bank of the little stream, where lichen-covered boulders, smooth and weather-worn, made convenient seats. “I am perfectly certain,” Mr. Linton said, “that if I were in London and ate an enormous meal of soda-bread, eggs like bullets, and very black tea out of a Thermos, I should have dyspepsia. Not that I ever had it; but the mixture sounds dyspeptic when you couple it with London. But sitting on the bank of a Donegal river it seems quite the proper thing, and I shall be very well after it.” “No one could be anything but well in Donegal,” Wally said, decisively. “Whew-w, Jim! think of the trenches, in a fortnight!” “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,” said Jim, lighting his pipe. “I want my little hit-back at Brer Boche, but I’d much rather it was in the open: there’s no romance in war when you carry it on in an over-populated ditch.” “Lucky young animals!” said Sir John, openly envious—and the boys flushed a little. As a rule, they were careful not to talk of the Front in the presence of the man whose whole soul longed to be out there with them. “But you’ll all come back, won’t you? and Mr. Linton, when the war is over, or when these ancient campaigners next get leave, you will bring them back to Rathcullen? I want to know that that is a settled thing.” “That is a matter which I don’t need to put to the committee,” Mr. Linton replied, looking at the cheery faces. “We’ll certainly come, O’Neill, since you are so good. And then, when we pack up finally for Australia and Billabong, what about you? You know it’s high time you visited that little country of ours.”