There was neither honeymoon, commercial traveller, nor man in the corner to disturb my peace; only a rollicking crowd of Irish harvest men on their way home, in spirits which were not all of air.
I was claimed as one of their noble fraternity before we were many stages on the road; and although I am happy to say I was not compelled to take part in their potations, for the simple reason that they had none left to offer me, I was constrained to sing songs, shout shouts, abjure allegiance to the Union Jack, and utter aspirations for the long life of Charlie Parnell and Father Mickey (I believe that was the reverend gentleman's name), and otherwise abase myself, for the sake of peace, and to prevent my head making acquaintance with the shillalahs of the company.

I got a little tired of it after a few hours' incessant bawling, and was rather glad, by the assistance of a few half-crowns (which I fervently trusted the manager would allow me to charge to his account), to escape their company at Preston, and seek the shelter of a more secluded compartment for the rest of the way.
I found one occupied by two files of soldiers in charge of a couple of deserters, and in this genial company performed the remainder of the journey in what would have been something like comfort but for the ominous gusts of wind and rain which, as we neared the coast, buffeted the carriage window, and promised a particularly ugly night for any one contemplating a sea voyage.
Sub-Chapter II.
BOWLED OUT.
When we reached Fleetwood it was blowing (so I heard some one say) "half a cap." I privately wondered what a whole cap must be like; for it was all I could do, by leaning hard up against the wind, and holding on my hat--a chimney-pot hat, by the way--to tack up the platform and fetch round for the Belfast steamer, which lay snorting and plunging alongside.
It takes a very good sailor to be cheerful under such circumstances.

I felt profoundly melancholy and wished myself safe at home in my bed.
The sight of the black and red funnel swaying to and fro raised qualms in me which, although still on _terra firma_, almost called for the intervention of a friendly steward.

Alas! friend there was none.
In my desperation I was tempted basely to compromise with duty.

How did I know Michael McCrane was on the steamer at all?
He might have dropped out at any one of a dozen wayside stations between Bletchley and here.
Indeed the probability was that he had.