"I may tell you," said the robber, "that if I succeeded in burning yo' home, stealing yo' hawsses, and running yo' cattle, Mr. George Ryan proposed to pay my wolves the sum of ten thousand dollars."
"Carry out your plans," the patrone was pleased all to pieces. "I'd love to fight your wolves. I've got some dynamite, too! Think of what you're losing!"
"Lose nothing!" said the robber. "I'll collect fifty thousand dollars compensation from Ryan!" He stooped down and gathered his son in his arms.
"And now, will you have us for guests in yo' home? Say the word, and we go."
Balshannon lifted his hat and made a little bow, much polite. "My house," he answered in Spanish, "is yours, señor!"
Being given to raising fowls, I'm instructed on eggs a whole lot. Killed young, an egg is a sure saint, being a pure white on the outside, and inwardly a beautiful yellow; but since she ain't had no chance to go bad she's not responsible. But when an egg has lingered in this wicked world, exposed to heat, cold, and other temptations, she succumbs, being weary of her youth and shamed of virtue. So she participates in vice to the best of her knowledge and belief. Yes, an old egg is bad every time, and the more bluff she makes with her white and holy shell, the more she's rotten inside, a whited sepulchre.
I reckon it's been the same with me, for at Holy Cross I was kept good and fresh by the family. Shell, white, and yolk, I was a good egg then, with no special inducements to vice. Now I know in my poor old self what an uphill pull it is trying to reform a stale egg.
In those days, when I thought I was being good on my own merits, I had no mercy on bad eggs like poor McCalmont, however much he tried to reform. Balshannon took me aside, and wanted to know if he could trust this robber.
"So far as you can throw a dawg," said I.
That night the lady fed alone, and we dined in the great hall, the patrone at the head of the table, McCalmont and Curly on one side, the padre and me on the other. Curly's ankle being twisted, and wrapped up most painful in wet bandages, the priest allowed that he couldn't ride away with his father, but had better stay with us.
Curly shied at that. "I won't stay none!" he growled.