"That's the reason I always go armed," said the unknown, clinking at the same moment something like the barrel of a pistol.
Wondering somewhat at his readiness to mistake my meaning, I felt disposed to drop any further effort to draw him out, and was about to address myself to sleep, as comfortably as I could.
"I'll jist trouble ye to lean aff that little parcel there, sir," said he, as he displaced from its position beneath my elbow, one of the paper packages the guard had already alluded to.
In complying with this rather gruff demand, one of my pocket pistols, which I carried in my breast pocket, fell out upon his knee, upon which he immediately started, and asked hurriedly—"and are you armed too?"
"Why, yes," said I, laughingly; "men of my trade seldom go without something of this kind."
"Be gorra, I was just thinking that same," said the traveller, with a half sigh to himself.
Why he should or should not have thought so, I never troubled myself to canvass, and was once more settling myself in my corner, when I was startled by a very melancholy groan, which seemed to come from the bottom of my companion's heart.
"Are you ill, sir?" said I, in a voice of some anxiety.
"You might say that," replied he—"if you knew who you were talking to—although maybe you've heard enough of me, though you never saw me till now."
"Without having that pleasure even yet," said I, "it would grieve me to think you should be ill in the coach."