“Cause!” she said. “There’s no cause, only foolishness. If it was more wages they were after I would say there was some sense in it. Or if it was less work they wanted you could understand it--though it’s more work and not less the most of the men in this country should be doing. But the strike that’s in it now isn’t what you might call a strike at all. It’s a demonstration, so it is. That’s what they’re saying anyway. It’s a demonstration in favour of the Irish Republic, which some of them play-boys is after getting up in Dublin. The Lord save us, would nothing do them only a republic?” Two hours later Sir James went back to his railway carriage. He had listened with interest to the opinions of the engine driver’s wife on politics and the Labour Movement. He was convinced that a separate and independent Ministry of Strikes ought to be established in Dublin. His own office was plainly incapable of dealing with Irish conditions. He took from his bag a quantity of foolscap paper and set to work to draft a note to the Prime Minister on the needs and ideas of Irish Labour. He became deeply interested in his work and did not notice the passing time. He was aroused by the appearance of Miss Molly Dennison at the door of his carriage. Her hair, which was blown about her face, was exceedingly wet. The water dripped from her skirt and sleeves of her jacket. Her complexion was as radiant and her smile as brilliant as ever. “Hullo, Jimmy,” she said. “What a frowst! Fancy sitting in that poky little carriage with both windows shut. Get up and put away your silly old papers. If you come along at once we’ll just be in time for dinner.” “How did you get here,” said Sir James. “I never thought--. In this weather--. How _did_ you get here?” “On my bike, of course,” said Molly. “Did a regular sprint. Wind behind me. Going like blazes. I’d have done it in forty minutes, only Michael ran into a sheep and I had to wait for him.” Sir James was aware that the engine driver, grinning broadly, was on the step of the carriage behind Molly. “I lent Michael Dad’s old bike,” said Molly, “and barring the accident with the sheep, he came along very well.” “What I’m thinking,” said the driver, “is that you’ll never be able to fetch back against the wind that does be in it. I wouldn’t say but you might do it, miss; but the gentleman wouldn’t be fit. He’s not accustomed to the like.” “We’re not going to ride back,” said Molly. “You’re going to take us back on the engine, with the two bikes in the tender, on top of the coal.” “I can’t do it, miss,” said the driver. “I declare to God I’d be afraid of my life to do it. Didn’t I tell you I was out on strike?”