“He can’t do it,” says dad; “it’s sink or swim with the lot of you. And he dursn’t either, not he,” says father, beginning to growl out his words. “If I ever heard he’d given away anyone in the lot I’d have his life, if I had to poleaxe him in George Street. He knows me, too.”

We sat yarning away pretty late. The old man didn’t say it, but I made out that he was sorry enough for that part of his life which had turned out so bad for us boys, and for mother and Aileen. Bad enough he was in a kind of way, old dad, but he wasn’t all bad, and I believe if he could have begun again and thought of what misery he was going to bring on the lot of us he would never have gone on the cross. It was too late, too late now, though, to think of that.

Towards morning I heard the old dog growl, and then the tramp of horses’ feet. Starlight rode up to the fire and let his horse go, then walked straight into his corner and threw himself down with out speaking. He had had a precious long ride, and a fast one by the look of his horse. The other one he had let go as soon as he came into the Hollow; but none of the three would be a bit the worse after a few hours’ rest. The horses, of course, were spare ones, and not wanted again for a bit.

Next morning it was “sharp’s the word,” and no mistake. I felt a deal smarter on it than yesterday. When you’ve fairly started for the road half the journey’s done. It’s the thinking of this and forgetting that, and wondering whether you haven’t left behind the t’other thing, that’s the miserablest part of going a journey; when you’re once away, no matter what’s left behind, you can get on some way or other.