thought to the future as long as the present meal
was well served and satisfactory. He had no more idea than a spring
lamb how we were to get to Rye, but thought perhaps a coach set out
at that hour in the morning. When I told him I had a horse saddled and
waiting for him, he was pleased, for Father Donovan could scamper
across the country in Ireland with the best of them. So far as I could
judge, the coast was clear, for every one we met between the "Pig and
Turnip" and the bridge seemed honest folk intent on getting early to
their work. It was ten minutes past seven when we clattered across the
bridge and set our faces toward Rye.

CHAPTER XXXI

Looking back over my long life I scarcely remember any day more
pleasant than that I spent riding side by side with Father Donovan
from London to Rye. The fine old man had a fund of entertaining
stories, and although I had heard them over and over again there was
always something fresh in his way of telling them, and now and then I
recognized a narrative that had once made two separate stories, but
which had now become welded into one in the old man's mind. There was
never anything gloomy in these anecdotes, for they always showed the
cheerful side of life and gave courage to the man that wanted to do
right; for in all of Father Donovan's stories the virtuous were always
made happy. We talked of our friends and acquaintances, and if he ever
knew anything bad about a man he never told it; while if I mentioned
it he could always say something good of him to balance it, or at
least to mitigate the opinion that might be formed of it. He was
always doing some man a good turn or speaking a comforting word for
him.

"O'Ruddy," he said, "I spent most of the day yesterday writing letters
to those that could read them in our part of Ireland, setting right
the rumours that had come back to us, which said you were fighting
duels and engaged in brawls, but the strangest story of all was the
one about your forming a friendship with a highwayman, who, they said,
committed robberies on the road and divided the spoil with you, and
here I find you without a servant at all at all, leading a quiet,
respectable life at a quiet, respectable inn. It's not even in a
tavern that I first come across you, but kneeling devoutly, saying a
prayer in your mother church. I see you leaving your inn having paid
your bill like a gentleman, when they said you took night-leave of
most of the hostelrie