One of his companions grunted, and another said, in accents which the astute Mr. O’Leary correctly judged to be those of a foreigner of some sort: 

“All right.  W’en he’s come out, we jumpa right here.  Wha’s matter, eh?”

“Suits me,” the negro replied.  “Let’s set down, an’ fo’ de Lawd’s sake, keep quite ’twell he come.”

Dirty Dan heard them move off to the other side of the path and sit down in the grass.

“So ‘tis that big buck yeller naygur from Darrow an’ two o’ the Greeks,” he mused.  “An’ God knows I never did like fightin’ in the dark.  They’ll knife me as sure as pussy is a cat.”

Decidedly, the prospect did not appeal to Dirty Dan.  However, he had his orders to protect The Laird’s son; he had his own peculiar notions of honor, and in his wild Irish heart there was not one drop of craven blood.  So presently, with the stealth of an animal, he crawled soundlessly away until he judged it would be safe for him to stand up and walk, which he did with infinite caution.

He reached the gate, passed like a wraith through it, and round to the side of Caleb Brent’s home, in momentary dread of discovery by a dog.  He breathed a sigh of relief when, the outcry failing to materialize, he decided the Brents were too poor to maintain a dog; whereupon he filled his pipe, lighted it, leaned up against the house, and, for the space of an hour, stood entranced, for from Caleb Brent’s poor shanty there floated the voice of an angel, singing to the notes of a piano.

“Glory be!” murmured the amazed Daniel.  “Sure, if that’s what the young fella hears whin he calls, divil a bit do I blame him.  Oh, the shweet v’ice of her—­an’ singin’ ’The Low-backed Car’!”

Despite the wicked work ahead of him, Dirty Dan was glad of the ill fortune which had sent him hither.  He had in full measure the Gael’s love of music, and when, at length, the singing ceased and reluctantly he made up his mind that the concert was over, he was thrilled to a point of exaltation.

“Begorra, I didn’t expect to be piped into battle,” he reflected humorously—­and sought the Brent wood-pile, in which he poked until his hard hands closed over a hard, sound, round piece of wood about three feet long.  He tested it across his knee, swung it over his head, and decided it would do.

“Now thin, for the surprise party,” he reflected grimly, and walked boldly to the gate, which he opened and closed with sufficient vigor to advertise his coming, even if his calked boots on the hard path had not already heralded his advance.  However, Dirty Dan desired to make certain; so he pursed his lips and whistled softly the opening bars of “The Low-backed Car” in the hope that the lilting notes would still further serve to inculcate in the lurking enemy the impression that he was a lover returning well content from his tryst.  As he sauntered along, he held his bludgeon in readiness while his keen eyes searched—­and presently he made out the cronching figures.