The train was an hour-and-a-quarter late at Finnabeg. Sir James McClaren, alone in a first-class smoking compartment, was not surprised. He had never travelled in Ireland before, but he held a belief that time is very little accounted of west of the Shannon. He looked out of the window at the rain-swept platform. It seemed to him that every passenger except himself was leaving the train at Finnabeg. This did not surprise him much. There was only one more station, Dunadea, the terminus of the branch line on which Sir James was travelling. It lay fifteen miles further on, across a desolate stretch of bog. It was not to be supposed that many people wanted to go to Dunadea. Sir James looking out of his window, noticed that the passengers who alighted did not leave the station. They stood in groups on the platform and talked to each other. They took no notice of the rain, though it was very heavy. Now and then one or two of them came to Sir James’ carriage and peered in through the window. They seemed interested in him. A tall young priest stared at him for a long time. Two commercial travellers joined the priest and looked at Sir James. A number of women took the place of the priest and the commercial travellers when they went away. Finally, the guard, the engine driver, and the station master came and looked in through the window. They withdrew together and sat on a barrow at the far end of the platform. They lit their pipes and consulted together. The priest joined them and offered advice. Sir James became a little impatient. Half an hour passed. The engine driver, the station master, and the guard knocked the ashes out of their pipes and walked over to Sir James’ compartment. The guard opened the door. “Is it Dunadea you’re for, your honour?” he said. “Yes,” said Sir James. “When are you going on?” The guard turned to the engine driver. “It’s what I’m after telling you,” he said, “it’s Dunadea the gentleman’s for.” “It might be better for him,” said the engine driver, “if he was to content himself with Finnabeg for this day at any rate.” “Do you hear that, your honour?” said the guard. “Michael here, says it would be better for you to stay in Finnabeg.” “There’s a grand hotel, so there is,” said the station master, “the same that’s kept by Mrs. Mulcahy, and devil the better you’ll find between this and Dublin.” Sir James looked from one man to the other in astonishment. Nowadays the public is accustomed to large demands from railway workers, demands for higher wages and shorter hours. But Sir James had never before heard of an engine driver who tried to induce a passenger to get out of his train fifteen miles short of his destination. “I insist,” he said abruptly, “on your taking me on to Dunadea.” “It’s what I told you all along, Michael,” said the guard. “He’s a mighty determined gentleman, so he is. I knew that the moment I set eyes on him.”