2o6 GARRYOWEN 



skirting the allotments and the EpiscopaHan 

 chapel, ran a path that led indirectly to the station. 

 This Mr Dashwood took, walking hurriedly, bag 

 in hand, and arriving half-an-hour before the 

 one-ten to Victoria was due. 



Crowsnest station is not a happy waiting 

 place. Few railway stations really are. To a 

 man in Mr Dashwood's state of mind, however, 

 it was not intolerable. Rose gardens, blue hills 

 or the music of Chopin would have been torture 

 to him. Pictures illustrating the beauty of 

 Eickman's boot poHsh and the virtues of Monkey 

 Brand soap fitted his mood. 



He arrived at Victoria shortly before three, 

 and drove to his rooms at the Albany. It was a 

 featm'e of Mr Dashwood's peculiar position that, 

 though heir to large sums of money, endowed 

 with a reasonable income, and with plenty of 

 credit at command, he was, at times, as destitute 

 of ready cash as any member of the unemployed. 

 Hatters, hosiers, tailors and bootmakers were 

 all at his command, but an unhmited credit for 

 hats is of no use to you when your bank balance 

 is overdrawn, and boots fail to fill the void 

 created by absence of money. 



When he paid his cab off in Piccadilly he had 

 only a few shillings left in his pocket. It was 

 late on a Saturday afternoon, and the desolate 

 prospect of a penniless Sunday lay before him 

 but left him unmoved. There is one good point 

 about all big troubles — they eat up httle ones. 



