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unresigned green of lettuce, the darker green of peas. We divided the bar of chocolate and tried to console ourselves with Batman , but he was really a bad man. Not only, as the cover had promised, did he climb up the outsides of houses; one of his chief pleasures was evidently to frighten women in their sleep; he could also fly off through the air by spreading out his cloak, taking millions of dollars with him, and his deeds were described in an English such as is taught neither in Continental schools nor in the schools of England and Ireland; Batman was strong and terribly just, but hard, and toward the wicked he could even be cruel, for now and again he would bash in someone’s teeth, a procedure fittingly rendered with the word “Screech.” There was no comfort in Batman .
    A different comfort awaited us: our red-haired conductor appeared and wrote us down with a smile for the fifth time. This mysterious process of frequent notation was now explained. We had crossed a county borderline again and were in County Mayo. Now the Irish have a strange custom: whenever the name of County Mayo is spoken (whether in praise, blame, or noncommittally), as soon as the mere word Mayo is spoken, the Irish add: “God help us!” It sounds like the response in a litany: “Lord have mercy upon us!”
    The conductor disappeared with the solemn assurance that he would not have to write us down again, and we stopped at a little station. Here they unloaded what had been unloaded at all the other stations: cigarettes, that was all. We had already acquired the habit of estimating the size of the hinterland according to the size of the bales of cigarettes unloaded, and, as a look at the map proved, our calculation was correct. I walked through the train to the baggage car to see how many bales of cigarettes were still left. There was one smallbale and one large one, so I knew how many more stations were ahead. The train had become alarmingly empty. I counted eighteen people, of whom we alone were six, and we seemed to have been traveling for an eternity past peat stacks, across bogs, and still there was no sign of the fresh green of lettuce, or the darker green of peas, or the bitter green of potatoes. Mayo, we said under our breath. God help us!
    We stopped, the large bale of cigarettes was unloaded, and looking over the snow-white fence of the station platform were some dark faces, shaded by peaked caps, men who seemed to be guarding a column of automobiles. I had noticed these at other stations too, the cars and the waiting, watching men; it was only now that I remembered how often I had already seen them. They seemed familiar, like the bundles of cigarettes, like our conductor and the little Irish freight cars, which are scarcely more than half the size of the English and Continental ones. I entered the baggage car where our red-haired friend was squatting on the last bale of cigarettes; using the English words with care, like a novice juggler handling china plates, I asked him the significance of these dark men with the peaked caps, and what the cars were standing there for; I anticipated some kind of folkloric explanation: a modern version of an abduction, a highway robbery, but the conductor’s answer was disconcertingly simple:
    “Those are taxis,” he said, and I breathed a sigh of relief. So whatever happens there are taxis, just as sure as there are cigarettes. The conductor seemed to have noticed my suffering: he offered me a cigarette, I accepted it gladly, he lit it for me and said with a reassuring smile:
    “We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
    Right on schedule we arrived ten minutes later in Westport. Here we were given a ceremonial reception. The stationmaster himself, a tall, dignified elderly gentleman, took up a position in front of our compartment, a friendly smile on his face, and by way of welcome raised a large engraved brass baton, symbol of his office, to his cap. He helped the ladies, helped thechildren,