“We part here,” said Daly, who for some time had been lost in thought, “and I have nothing but thanks to offer you for this night's service, Freney; but if the time should come that I can do you a good turn—”
“I 'll never ask it, sir,” said Freney, interrupting him.
“And why not? Are you too proud?”
“Not too proud to be under any obligation to you,” said the robber, stopping him, “but too proud of the honor you did me this night by keeping my company, ever to hurt your fame by letting the world know it. No, Mr. Daly, I knew your courage well; but this was the bravest thing ever you did.”
He sprang from his horse as he spoke, and gave a long, shrill whistle. A deep silence followed, and he repeated the signal, and, soon after, the tramp of naked feet was heard on the road, and Jemmy advanced towards them at his ordinary sling trot.
“Take the trunk up to the town.”
“No, no,” said Daly, “I'll do that myself;” and he relieved the urchin of his burden, taking the opportunity to slip some crown-pieces into his willing hand while he did so.
“Good-bye, sir,” said Freney, taking off his hat with courteous deference.
“Good-bye, Freney,” said Daly, as he seized the robber's hand and shook it warmly. “I 'll soon be shaking hands with twenty fellows not a whit more honest,” said Daly, as he looked after him through the gloom. “Hang me if I don't think he's better company, too!” and with this very flattering reflection on some parties unknown, he plodded along towards the town.
Here, again, new disappointment awaited him: a sudden summons had called the members of both political parties to the capital, and horses were not to be had at any price.