It was very much to the credit of Sir James that he recognised the correctness of the engine driver’s position. It is not pleasant to be held up twenty-four hours in the middle of a bog. It is most unpleasant to be kept away from church on one’s own wedding day. But Sir James knew that strikes are sacred things, far more sacred than weddings. He hastened to agree with the engine driver. “I know you can’t go on,” he said, “nothing would induce me to ask you such a thing. But perhaps---” The woman at the washtub did not reverence strikes or understand the labour movement. She spoke abruptly. “Have sense the two of you,” she said, “What’s to hinder you taking the gentleman into Dunadea, Michael?” “It’s what I can’t do nor won’t,” said her husband. “I’m not asking you to,” said Sir James. “I understand strikes thoroughly and I know you can’t do it. All I came here for was to ask you to tell me where I could find a telegraph office.” “There’s no telegraphic office nearer than Dunadea,” said the engine driver, “and that’s seven miles along the railway and maybe nine if you go round by road.” Sir James looked out at the rain. It was thick and persistent. A strong west wind swept it in sheets across the bog. He was a man of strong will and great intellectual power; but he doubted if he could walk even seven miles along the sleepers of a railway line against half a gale of wind, wearing on his feet a pair of patent leather boots bought for a wedding. “Get up out of that, Michael,” said the woman, “And off with you to Dunadea with the gentleman’s telegram. You’ll break no strike by doing that, so not another word out of your head.” “I’ll--I’ll give you ten shillings with pleasure,” said Sir James, “I’ll give you a pound if you’ll take a message for me to Mr. Dennison’s house.” “Anything your honour chooses to give,” said the woman, “will be welcome, for we are poor people. But it’s my opinion that Michael ought to do it for nothing seeing it’s him and his old strike that has things the way they are.” “To listen to you talking,” said the driver, “anybody would think I’d made the strike myself; which isn’t true at all, for there’s not a man in the country that wants it less than me.” Sir James tore a leaf from his note book and wrote a hurried letter to Miss Dennison. The engine driver tucked it into the breast pocket of his coat and trudged away through the rain. His wife invited Sir James to sit by the fire. He did so gladly, taking the stool her husband had left. He even, after a short time, found that he had taken the child on to his knee. It was a persistent child, which clung round his legs and stared at him till he took it up. The woman went on with her washing. “What,” said Sir James, “is the immediate cause of this strike?”