“'Good porter,—divil a less,' cried the mob; 'Mol Heavyside's best.' And so I took the vessel in my hands, and before they could say a syllable, drained it to the bottom; for I was very thirsty with the ride, and in want of something to refresh myself.
“'But you did n't dhrink the toast,' said Dodd savagely.
“'Where was the toast? He didn't say the words,' shouted the mob.
“'Off with his hat, and make him drink it,' cried out several others from a distance. They saved me one part of the trouble, for they knocked off my hat with a stone.
“'Here's health and long life to Hickman O'Reilly!' cried out Dodd,—'that's the toast.'
“'And what have I to wish him either?' said I, while at the same time I tore open the pewter measure, and then with one strong dash of my band drove it down on the ruffian's head, down to the very brows. I lost no time afterwards, but, striking right and left, plunged forwards; the mob fled as I followed, and by good luck the carthorses, getting frightened, sprang forward also, and so I rode on with a few slight cuts; a stone or two struck me, nothing more; but they 'll need a plumber to rid my friend Dodd of his helmet.”
“And we used to call this town our own,” said Lionel, bitterly.
“Nothing is a man's own but his honor, sir. That base cowardice yonder believes itself honest and independent, as if a single right feeling, a single good or virtuous thought, could consort with habits like theirs; but they are less base than those who instigate them. The real scoundrels are the Hickmans of this world, the men who compensate for low birth and plebeian origin by calumniating the wellborn and the noble.—What is Flury wanting here?” said he, as, attracted by Daly's narrative, the poor fellow had drawn near to listen.