“I suppose one can’t expect baths everywhere,” Norah said. “The queer part to us is being charged extra for one’s tub; no hotel in Australia ever does anything so ungracious. They rather encourage one to take baths there.”
“It’s a ridiculous charge, especially where a water-supply is no trouble,” O’Neill answered. “Did I ever tell you the story of a friend of mine who was staying in a very old-fashioned country-house, where his early cup of tea was brought in by a very old butler? My friend asked for a bath, and was told there was no hot water available—‘the pipes have froze on us,’ said the butler, sadly. Next day it was the same; but the third morning the butler came in with triumph in his eye.
“‘Sure, the bath will be all right this morning, sir,’ he said, confidentially. ‘I have the hot wather beyant.’
“He went out, and returned panting under an enormous bath of the flat tin-saucer variety, which he put down with pride, while my friend—who happened to be as big as your father—watched him, much thrilled. Next he laid down a smart bath-mat, and hung over a chair a bath-towel as large as a sheet. Finally, he went out, and brought back a very small can of hot water, which he poured very carefully into the bath; as my friend said, it made a thin film of wet on its great flat surface. The old butler straightened up, beaming.
“‘Now, sir,’ he said, proudly—‘ye can have your little dive!’”
Norah’s shout of laughter was echoed by Wally and Jim, whose heads suddenly appeared over the ivy-covered wall.
“I don’t see why you retire to ruins to tell your best stories, O’Neill,” Jim said. “Also, we feel that it’s breakfast-time, and we’ve been scouring the country for you both.”
“I begin to feel that way myself,” Norah said, jumping down.
Mr. Linton was smoking in front of the hotel. In the dining-room, the “odd-boy,” again thinly disguised for the moment as a waiter, hovered about their table for orders, a procedure which seemed superfluous, since the possibilities of the house did not exceed the inevitable bacon and eggs. No one, however, was disposed to quarrel with the meal; and very soon after, they were again on the road, leaving the friendly little village by a winding highway that soon brought them within sight and sound of the sea—one of the deep inlets that thrust themselves far into the wild northern coast of Ireland. The road led, now close to the shore, now striking across country to find a short cut over the neck of a peninsula. They skirted little bays where a golden beach gleamed invitingly, and ran out on rocky headlands, on which the sullen sea thundered. Inland, the country grew more and more lonely and desolate.