“No, I don't think you ever did,” replied David, blandly.
“Second time in to-day, too.”
“Second time in,” repeated Mr. Teesdale, drawing the reins through his fingers.
“And it'll take you a good hour to get home. I say, you'll be getting into trouble. You won't be there before——What time is it now, old man?”
“Look at the post-office,” said David, as he took up his whip.
“I can't see it without going out into the street; besides, I always thought they took their time from that wonderful watch of yours?”
“You're a clever fellow!” cried David, as the other had never heard him speak in the whole course of their previous acquaintance; and he was gone without another word.
He drove away with a troubled face; but the Melbourne street-lamps showed deeper furrows under the old tall hat than David carried with him into the darkness beyond the city, for the more he thought of it, the surer did he become that his late action was not only defensible, but rather praiseworthy into the bargain. There was about it, moreover, a dramatic fitness which charmed him no less because he did not know the name for it. Throughout his unsuccessful manhood he had treasured a watch, which was as absurd in his pocket as a gold-headed cane in a beggarman's hand, because Oliver had given it to him. For years it must have mocked him whenever he took it from his shabby pocket, but in the narrowest straits he had never parted with it, nor had his gold watch ever ceased to be David Teesdale's most precious possession. And now, after two-and-thirty years, he had calmly pawned it, on the spur of the moment, and, as it seemed to himself, for the most extraordinary and beautiful reason in the world; for what he could never bring himself to do in his own need he had done in a moment for the extravagant behoof of his friend's daughter; and his heart beat higher than for many a year in the joy of his deed. So puffed up was he, indeed, that he forgot the fear of Mrs. Teesdale, and some other things besides; for at the foot of the last hill, within a mile of the farm, the horse shied so suddenly that David, taken off his guard, found his near wheels in the ditch before he could haul in the slack of the reins; and when another plunge might have overturned the buggy, a man ran out of the darkness to the horse's head, and before David could realise what had happened his ship had righted itself and was at anchor in the middle of the road.
“My fault, as I'm a sinner!” cried a rich voice from near the horse's ears.
“Nay, I'm very much obliged to you,” said Mr. Teesdale, with a laugh, for he made no work of a bit of danger, much less when past.