The first available train carried Harold southward. On the way he read the letter again. The notion of entering a boycotted household amused and pleased him. He had never been in Ireland before, and he was quite willing that his first visit should be well spiced with the national flavour. Of course he had his views on the Irish question. Every American newspaper reader is cheerfully satisfied with the conviction that the Celtic race on its native sod has no real faults. A constitutional antipathy to rent may exist, but that is a national foible which, owing doubtless to some peculiarity of the climate, is almost praiseworthy in Ireland, though elsewhere regarded as hardly respectable. At any rate, with the consciousness that he was about to come face to face with the much-talked-of boycott, Harold’s spirits rose, and as he read Polly Connolly’s message they rose still higher. He was a lively young fellow, and fond of excitement. And at one time, as he recalled with a smile and a sigh, he had been almost fond of Polly Connolly. When he alighted at the station--a small place in Tipperary--the dusk of the early winter evening was closing in, and Harold recollected that his prompt departure from Dublin had prevented him from apprising Jack of his movements. Of course there would be no trap from Lisnahoe to meet this train, but that mattered little. Half a dozen hack-drivers were already extolling the merits of their various conveyances, and imploring his patronage. Selecting the best-looking car, he swung himself into his seat, while the “jarvey” hoisted his portmanteau on the other side. “Where to, yer honour?” inquired the latter, climbing to his place. “To Lisnahoe House,” answered Hayes. “Where?” This question was asked with a vehemence that startled the young American. “Lisnahoe. Don’t you know the way?” he replied. “In troth an’ I do. Is it Connolly’s?” “Yes,” answered Harold. “Drive on, my good fellow; it’s growing late.” The man’s only answer was to spring from his seat and seize Harold’s portmanteau, which he deposited on the road with no gentle hand. “What do you mean?” cried the young man, indignantly. “I mane that ye’d betther come down out o’ that afore I make ye.” Harold was on the ground in a moment and approached the man with clinched fists and flashing eyes. “How dare you, you scoundrel! Will you drive me to Lisnahoe or will you not?” “The divil a fut,” answered the fellow, sullenly. Hayes controlled his anger by an effort. There was nothing to be gained by a row with the man. He turned to another driver. “Pick up that portmanteau. Drive me out to Mr. Connolly’s. I’ll pay double fare.”