"Don't you be scared," he said, reassuringly, to the horse; "he's
firing in the air."

The pistol-shots were answered by the impatient clangor of a patrol-
wagon's gong, and glancing over his shoulder Gallegher saw its red and
green lanterns tossing from side to side and looking in the darkness
like the side-lights of a yacht plunging forward in a storm.

"I hadn't bargained to race you against no patrol-wagons," said
Gallegher to his animal; "but if they want a race, we'll give them a
tough tussle for it, won't we?"

Philadelphia, lying four miles to the south, sent up a faint yellow
glow to the sky. It seemed very far away, and Gallegher's braggadocio
grew cold within him at the loneliness of his adventure and the
thought of the long ride before him.

It was still bitterly cold.

The rain and sleet beat through his clothes, and struck his skin with
a sharp chilling touch that set him trembling.

Even the thought of the over-weighted patrol-wagon probably sticking
in the mud some safe distance in the rear, failed to cheer him, and
the excitement that had so far made him callous to the cold died out
and left him weaker and nervous. But his horse was chilled with the
long standing, and now leaped eagerly forward, only too willing to
warm the half-frozen blood in its veins.