“Now, you, sir, be sure to be here in time on Monday morning.”
“All right!” said Dick, nonchalantly; and we passed out. In the boreen, he said to me:—
“Let us stroll up this way, Art,” and we walked up the hill towards Joyce’s house, Murdock coming down to his gate and looking at us. When we came to Joyce’s gate, we stopped. There was no sign of Norah; but Joyce himself stood at his door. I was opening the gate when he came forward.
“Good evening, Mr. Joyce,” said I. “How is your arm? I hope quite well by this time. Perhaps you don’t remember me—I had the pleasure of giving you a seat up here in my car, from Mrs. Kelligan’s, the night of the storm.”
“I remember well,” he said; “and I was thankful to you, for I was in trouble that night—it’s all done now.” And he looked round the land with a sneer, and then he looked yearningly towards his old farm.
“Let me introduce my friend, Mr. Sutherland,” said I.
“I ask yer pardon, sir. An’ I don’t wish to be rude—but I don’t want to know him. He’s no frind to me and mine!”
Dick’s honest, manly face grew red with shame. I thought he was going to say something angrily, so cut in as quickly as I could:—
“You are sadly mistaken, Mr. Joyce; Dick Sutherland is too good a gentleman to do wrong to you or any man. How can you think such a thing?”
“A man what consorts wid me enemy can be no frind of mine!”