It was some miles to Andy's home, and night over-took him on the way. As he trudged along in the middle of the road he was looking up at a waning moon and some few stars twinkling through the gloom, absorbed in many sublime thoughts as to their existence, and wondering what they were made of, when his cogitations were cut short by tumbling over something which lay in the middle of the highway; and on scrambling to his legs again, and seeking to investigate the cause of his fall, he was rather surprised to find a man lying in such a state of insensibility that all Andy's efforts could not rouse him. While he was standing over him, undecided as to what he should do, the sound of approaching wheels, and the rapid steps of galloping horses, attracted his attention; and it became evident that unless the chaise and pair which he now saw in advance were brought to pull up, the cares of the man in the middle of the road would be very soon over. Andy shouted lustily, but to his every "Halloo there!" the crack of the whip replied, and accelerated speed instead of a halt was the consequence; at last, in desperation, Andy planted himself in the middle of the road, and with out-spread arms before the horses, succeeded in arresting their progress, while he shouted "Stop!" at the top of his voice. A pistol-shot from the chaise was the consequence of Andy's summons, for a certain Mr. Furlong, a foppish young gentleman, travelling from the castle of Dublin, never dreamed that a humane purpose could produce the cry of "Stop," on a _horrid Irish_ road; and as he was reared in the ridiculous belief that every man ran a great risk of his life who ventured outside the city of Dublin, he travelled with a brace of loaded pistols beside him; and as he had been anticipating murder and robbery ever since nightfall, he did not await the demand for his "money or his life" to defend both, but fired away the instant he heard the word "Stop!" and fortunate it was for Andy that the traveller's hurry impaired his aim. Before he could discharge a second pistol, Andy had screened himself under the horses' heads; and recognising in the postilion his friend Micky Doolin, he shouted out, "Micky, jewel, don't let them be shootin' me!" Now Micky's cares were quite enough engaged on his own account: for the first pistol-shot made the horses plunge violently, and the second time Furlong blazed away set the saddle-horse kicking at such a rate, that all Micky's horsemanship was required to preserve his seat; added to which, the dread of being shot came over him, and he crouched low on the grey's neck, holding fast by the mane, and shouting for mercy as well as Andy, who still kept roaring to Mick, "not to let them be shootin' him," while he held his hat above him, in the fashion of a shield, as if that would have proved any protection against a bullet. "Who are you at all?" said Mick. "Andy Rooney, sure." "And what do you want?" "To save the man's life."