“Ye maybe want some o' the tools yet,” said Sandy, dryly, for, taking his master's observations in the light of a command, he was about to commit the case and the paper to the flames. “Take care! take care!” said Mulville, in a whisper; “it might be a felony.” “It's devilish little Sandy would care what name they would give it,” replied Daly; “he 'd put the owner on the top of them, and burn all together, on a very brief hint;” then, lowering his voice, he added, “What's his chance?” “The chance of every young fellow of two or three-and-twenty to live through what would kill any man of my time of life. With good care and quiet, but quiet above all, he may rub through it. We must leave him now.” “You 'll remain here,” said Daly; “you 'll not quit this, I hope?” “For a day or two at least, I 'll not leave him.” And with this satisfactory assurance Daly closed the door, leaving Sandy on guard over the patient. “Here's your case of instruments, Hickman,” said Daly, as the old doctor sat motionless in his gig, awaiting their reappearance; for, in his dread of further violence, he had preferred thus patiently to await their return, than venture once more into the company of Sandy M'Grane. “We 've robbed you of nothing except some lint; and,” added he in a whisper to Muiville, “I very much doubt if that case were ever opened and closed before with so slight an offence against the laws of property.” Old Hickman by this time had opened the pocket-book, and was busily engaged inspecting its contents. “Ay, that's the bond!” said Daly, laughing; “you may well think how small the chance of repayment is, when I did not think it worth while burning it.” “It will be paid in good time,” said Hickman, in a low cackle, “and the interest too, maybe--ay!” And with sundry admonitions from the whip, and successive chucks of the rein, the old pony threw up his head, shook his tail crossly, and, with a step almost as measured as that of his master, moved slowly out of the courtyard. “So much for our century and our civilization!” said Daly, as he looked after him; “the old miser that goes there has more power over our country and its gentry than ever a feudal chief wielded in the days of vassalage.” CHAPTER IX. “DALY'S.” It was upon one of the very coldest evenings of the memorably severe January of 1800 that the doors of Daly's Club House were besieged by carriages of every shape and description: some brilliant in all the lustre of a perfect equipage; others more plainly denoting the country gentleman or the professional man; and others, again, the chance occupants of the various coach-stands, displayed every variety of that now extinct family whose members went under the denominations of “whiskeys,” “jingles,” and “noddies.”