"Wait till I tell you. Begorra, I thought he was kilt, sure," he replied, in confidential whispers. "A bad scrape it was, and I didn't want to be in it; so I jumped on my box and druv off telling 'em I was goin' for a docther." "Don't you know what became of him?" "Faix, I do. Two hours afther, I sent a frind of mine, one Michael Mallahy, that lives convanient to the public house, to go and drink a glass of beer at the bar-room, and inquire for the man that was hurted. Now pay me my tin dollars, and I won't say a word." "Did your friend find out about the man that was hurt?" I inquired, putting my hand into my pocket. "Faix, he did. The gintleman wasn't kilt at all. He came out of it with only a sore head, and left the public house all alone by himself." "Haven't you heard of him since?" "Not one word; and I don't know where in the world is he." "And he didn't pay you?" I added, withdrawing my hand empty from my pocket. "He did not thin." "He served you just right, then," I continued. "Aren't you going to pay me my tin dollars?" said he, looking uglier than usual. "I am not--not I." "Begorra, thin, I will inform the police," replied he, savagely. "You struck the gintleman on the head with the wrinch, and I'll have you in the Tombs." "What's the trouble!" asked Mr. Loraine, who had been impatiently waiting for me in another part of the room, as he stepped up to the hackman, his attention attracted by the fellow's anger. "That is the man that drove us out to Harlem last night," I answered. "What's your number?" demanded Mr. Loraine of the surly brute. The hackman looked at him. The New York merchant was no tyro, and Jehu, preferring not to deal with one who understood the characteristics of his class, suddenly bolted through the open door, and ran for his hack. Mr. Loraine pursued him; but the rascal had left his carriage on the Bowling Green side of the street, and he distanced both of us. Leaping upon his box, he drove off as fast as his horses could go. "Didn't you notice the number of his hack?" asked Mr. Loraine, as we returned to the hotel. "I did not, sir." "What did he want of you?" "He wished me to pay him ten dollars for driving Kate and me out to Harlem last night," I replied, laughing. "It did not take you long to give him an answer to such a demand." "I wanted to know why Tom Thornton had not paid him. It seems that the scoundrel, when he found his employer was hurt, was afraid of getting into trouble, and left him. I put my hand into my pocket, as though I intended to pay him, so as to induce him to tell me what I wanted to know." "You'll do!" added Mr. Loraine, smiling. "But what did become of Thornton?" "When the hackman sent a friend of his to inquire about him, Tom Thornton had come to his senses and left." "I'm afraid you'll hear from him again. If you do, let me know. Now, where is Kate?"