"I should think so. Bet you twopence I'll be first at the cross
roads. I say, let's pull the bell at the front gate and give an
awful yell before we start. They'll never catch us."

"Yes," said Cashel, ironically; "I fancy I see myself doing it, or
you either. Now then. One, two, three, and away."

They ran off together, and reached the cross roads about eight
minutes later; Gully completely out of breath, and Cashel nearly so.
Here, according to their plan, Gully was to take the north road and
run to Scotland, where he felt sure that his uncle's gamekeeper
would hide him. Cashel was to go to sea; where, he argued, he could,
if his affairs became desperate, turn pirate, and achieve eminence
in that profession by adding a chivalrous humanity to the ruder
virtues for which it is already famous.

Cashel waited until Gully had recovered from his race. Then he said.

"Now, old fellow, we've got to separate."

Gully, thus confronted with the lonely realities of his scheme, did
not like the prospect. After a moment's reflection he exclaimed:

"Damme, old chap, but I'll come with you. Scotland may go and be
hanged."

But Cashel, being the stronger of the two, was as anxious to get rid
of Gully as Gully was to cling to him. "No," he said; "I'm going to
rough it; and you wouldn't be able for that. You're not strong
enough for a sea life. Why, man, those sailor fellows are as hard as