Leaving the Irish-speaking man thus, I turned the horse’s head and made him spin along the road at a fine rate, being not only anxious to overtake the wearer of the “duds,” if he existed, but also to escape a storm of rain which had been threatening for half the day and was then beginning to descend. When I had gone on thus for a few miles, and passed a good many on the road—not one of whom answered the description of my man—I allowed the horse to “breathe” in ascending one of the braes by laying the reins on his neck and letting him take his own pace. In thus moving slowly along, I turned a corner allotted to stone breaking, and there caught sight of a dark object huddled in to shelter from the rain. I was all but past, and had just noticed that the figure was that of a ragged tramp, when the man rose and trotted hurriedly after the gig, saying respectfully—
“If you please, sir, would it be asking too much, sir, for you to give me a lift?”
I pulled up the horse and scanned him closely, while I appeared to busy myself pulling up my collar to keep out the driving rain.
“Well,” I said, in a tone by no means gracious or obliging, “how far are you going?”
“I’m not particular, sir,” he answered with alacrity, “as far as you’re going yourself, sir.”
“Come up, then.”
I had decided that he might not be my man, but I would be as well to have him beside me till I saw if there were any others further on. Besides, it was already growing dark, and I had little time to lose.
The bundle of rags got up, and I had a better view of his face as he made his ragged legs comfortable under the knee cloth. It was clean shaven and by no means so loutish as his speech. His hair, I saw, was cropped to the bone. I drove on till it was dark without overtaking any other, drawing my companion out on the weather and other every-day topics.
“What are you when you are at home?” I at length half jocularly asked.
I had kept him at arm’s length, so to speak, all the way, never allowing him to become familiar in the least.