“I only hope that I may do so,” said Heathcote, as he wrung the other's hand warmly, “and I'd bless the hour that led me here this morning.”
It was soon arranged between them that Agincourt should drive round by Heathcote's lodgings and take him up, when he had packed up a few things for the journey. O'Shea was so sound asleep that he could scarcely be awakened to hear his companion say “good-bye.” Some vague, indistinct idea floated before him that Heathcote had fallen upon some good fortune, and, as he shook his hand, he muttered,—
“Go in and win, old fellow; take all you can get, clear the beggars out, that's my advice to you.” And with these sage counsels he turned on his pillow, and snored away once more.
“Wasn't that Inch-o'-brogue I heard talking to you?” asked Agincourt.
“Yes. The poor fellow, like myself, is sorely hard up just now.”
“My old governor must get him something. We 'll think of him on our return; so jump in, Charley, or we shall be late for the train.”
How contagious was that happy boy's good humor, and how soon did his light-heartedness impart its own quality to Heathcote's spirits. As they whirled along through the brisk fresh air of the morning, the youth recounted all that passed with him since they met,—no very great or stirring events were they, it is true, but they were his,—and they were his first experiences of dawning manhood; and, oh! let any of us, now plodding along wearily on the shady side of life, only bethink us of the joyful sunshine of our youth, when the most commonplace incidents came upon us with freshness, and we gloried in the thought of having a “part,” an actual character to play, in that grand drama they call the World.
We would not, if we could, recall his story; we could not hope that our reader would listen as pleasurably as did Heathcote to it; enough that we say they never felt the miles go over, nor, till their journey was ended, had a thought that they were already arrived at their destination.