"Yes, but I am," said I. "Why, sure it's airly enough," said he. "Yes," said I, "it's early enough, but it's early the wrong way. It's now," said I, taking out my watch, "just twenty minutes of four. I must be off--really." "Well," said O'Halloran, "I'm sorry ye're going, but you know best what you must do." "And I'm sorrier," said I, "for I've spent a most delightful evening." "Sure an' I'm glad to hear ye say that. And ye'll come again, won't ye?" "Nothing would give me greater pleasure." "Come to-morrow night thin," said he. "I shall be only too happy," said I; and with these words I took my departure. I went home, and went to bed at once. But I lay awake, a prey to many thoughts. Those thoughts did not refer to O'Halloran, or to his Aydipodayan Ipopaya. On the contrary, they referred altogether to the ladies, and to the manner in which they had heard my narrative. What was the meaning of that? And my speculations on this passed on even into my dreams, and thus carried me away into CHAPTER XVIII. THE FOLLOWING MORNING.--APPEARANCE OF JACK RANDOLPH.--A NEW COMPLICATION.--THE THREE ORANGES.--DESPERATE EFFORTS Of THE JUGGLER. --HOW TO MAKE FULL, AMPLE, COMPLETE, AND MOST SATISFACTORY EXPLANATIONS.--MISS PHILLIPS!--THE WIDOW!!--NUMBER THREE!!!--LOUIE RAPIDLY RISING INTO GREATER PROMINENCE ON THE MENTAL AND SENTIMENTAL HORIZON OF JACK RANDOLPH. "Well, old chap," cried Jack, as he burst into my room on the following morning, "what the mischief were you doing with yourself all last night? Come, out with it. No humbug. I was here at twelve, lighted up, and smoked till--yes--I'll be hanged if it wasn't half-past two. And you didn't come. What do you mean, my good fellow, by that sort of thing?" "Oh," said I, meekly, "I was passing the evening with a friend." "The evening! The night you mean." "Well, it was rather late," said I. "The fact is, we got talking, and I was telling him about my adventure on the ice. We had been at the concert first, and then I went with him to his quarters. By-the-way, why weren't you there?" In this dexterous way I parried Jack's question, for I did not feel inclined just yet to return his confidence. I am by nature, as the reader must by this time have seen, uncommonly reticent and reserved, and I wasn't going to pour out my story and my feelings to Jack, who would probably go and tell it everywhere before the close of the day. "The concert!" cried Jack, contemptuously--"the concert! My dear boy, are you mad? What's a concert to me or I to a concert? A concert? My dear fellow, what kind of an idea have you formed of me, if you think that I am capable of taking part in any festive scene when my soul is crushed under such an accumulated burden of fuss and bother?" "What, are you bothered still? Haven't you begun to see your way through the woods?" "See my way?" cried Jack. "Why, it's getting worse and worse--"