“Something like thirteen or fourteen hundred miles, at a rough guess.”
“Oh, th' eternal villain! if I had him by the neck!” cried Joe, as he struck the ground a blow with his blackthorn which certainly would not have improved the human face divine; “he towld me they were a few miles asunder,—an easy day's walk!”
“Who said so?” asked I.
“The chap on Eden Quay, in Dublin, where we took our passage.”
“Don't be down-hearted, anyway,” said I; “distance is nothing here: we think no more of a hundred miles than you do in Ireland of a walk before breakfast. If it's any comfort to you, I'm going the same way myself.” This very consolatory assurance, which I learned then for the first time also, did not appear to give the full confidence I expected, for Joe made no answer, but, with head dropped and clasped hands, continued to mutter some words in Irish that, so far as sound went, had not the “clink” of blessings.
“He knows Dan,” said the old man to his son, in a whisper which, low as it was, my quick ears detected.
“What does he know about him?” exclaimed the son, savagely; for the memory of one deception was too strong upon him to make him lightly credulous.
“I knew a very smart young man,—a very promising young fellow indeed,—at New Orleans,” said I, “of the name you speak of,—Dan Cullinane.”
“What part of Ireland did he come from?” asked Joe.
“The man I mean was from Clare, somewhere in the neighborhood of Ennis.”