As for Jim, he had no idea of returning to Number Nine again until he had seen Sevenoaks, and that one most interesting person there with whom he had associated his future, although he did not mention his plan to Mr. Benedict.

The ice was already gathering in the stream, and the winter was descending so rapidly that they despaired of taking their boat down to the old landing, and permitting it to await their return, as they would be almost certain to find it frozen in, and be obliged to leave it there until spring.  They were compelled, therefore, to make the complete journey on foot, following to the lower landing the “tote-road” that Mike Conlin had taken when he came to them on his journey of discovery.

They started early one morning about the middle of November, and, as the weather was cold, Turk bore them company.  Though Mr. Benedict had become quite hardy, the tramp of thirty miles over the frozen ground, that had already received a slight covering of snow, was a cruel one, and taxed to their utmost his powers of endurance.

Jim carried the pack of provisions, and left his companion without a load; so by steady, quiet, and almost speechless walking, they made the entire distance to Mike Conlin’s house before the daylight had entirely faded from the pale, cold sky.  Mike was taken by surprise.  He could hardly be made to believe that the hearty-looking, comfortably-dressed man whom he found in Mr. Benedict was the same whom he had left many months before in the rags of a pauper and the emaciation of a feeble convalescent.  The latter expressed to Mike the obligations he felt for the service which Jim informed him had been rendered by the good-natured Irishman, and Mike blushed while protesting that it was “nothing at all, at all,” and thinking of the hundred dollars that he earned so easily.

“Did ye know, Jim,” said Mike, to change the subject, “that owld Belcher has gone to New Yorrk to live?”

“No.”

“Yis, the whole kit an’ boodle of ’em is gone, an’ the purty man wid ’em.”

“Hallelujer!” roared Jim.

“Yis, and be gorry he’s got me hundred dollars,” said Mike.

“What did ye gi’en it to ’im for, Mike?  I didn’t take ye for a fool.”

“Well, ye see, I wint in for ile, like the rist of ’em.  Och! ye shud ’ave seen the owld feller talk!  ‘Mike,’ says he, ’ye can’t afford to lose this,’ says he.  ‘I should miss me slape, Mike,’ says he, ’if it shouldn’t all come back to ye.’  ‘An’ if it don’t,’ says I, ’there’ll be two uv us lyin’ awake, an’ ye’ll have plinty of company; an’ what they lose in dhraimin’ they’ll take out in cussin’,’ says I.  ‘Mike,’ says he, ‘ye hadn’t better do it, an’ if ye do, I don’t take no resk;’ an’ says I, ‘they’re all goin’ in, an’ I’m goin’ wid ’em.’  ‘Very well,’ says he, lookin’ kind o’ sorry, and then, be gorry, he scooped the whole pile, an’ barrin’ the ile uv his purty spache, divil a bit have I seen more nor four dollars.”