Darby only laughed, and again excusing himself, he asked the way; which having learned, he wished his newly-made friend good-night, and we proceeded.
“They know you well hereabouts; by name, at least,” said I, when we had walked on a little.
“That they do,” said Darby, proudly. “From Wexford to Belfast there 's few does n't know me; and they 'll know more of me, av I 'm right, before I die.”
This he spoke with more of determination than I ever heard him use previously.
“Here 's the street now; there 's the lamp,—that one with the two burners there. Faix, we 've made good track since morning, anyhow.”
As he spoke we entered a narrow passage, through which the street lamp threw a dubious half-light. This conducted us to a small paved court, crossing which we arrived at the door of a large house. Darby knocked in a peculiar manner, and the door was speedily opened by a man who whispered something, to which M'Keown made answer in the same low tone.
“I 'm glad to see you again,” said the man, louder, as he made way for him to pass.
I pushed forward to follow, when suddenly a strong arm was stretched across my breast, and a gruff voice asked,—“Who are you?”
Darby stepped back, and said something in his ear. The other replied, sturdily, in the negative; and although Darby, as it appeared, used every power of persuasion he possessed, the man was inexorable.
At last, when the temper of both appeared nearly giving way. Darby turned to me, and said,—“Wait for me a moment, Tom, where you are, and I 'll come for you.”