gun, and all kinds of riffraff stuff not sold with Playmore."

Dyck nodded and smiled. "Good Michael!"

Then he drew himself up stiffly, and blew in and out his breath as if
with the joy of living. For four hard years he had been denied the free
air of free men. Even when walking in the prison-yard, on cold or fair
days, when the air was like a knife or when it had the sun of summer in
it, it still had seemed to choke him.

In prison he had read, thought, and worked much. They had at least done
that for him. The Attorney-General had given him freedom to work with
his hands, and to slave in the workshop like one whose living depended on
it. Some philanthropic official had started the idea of a workshop, and
the officials had given the best of the prisoners a chance to learn
trades and make a little money before they went out into the world. All
that Dyck had earned went to purchase things he needed, and to help his
fellow prisoners or their families.

Where was he now? The gap between the old life of nonchalance,
frivolity, fantasy, and excitement was as great as that between heaven
and hell. Here he was, after four years of prison, walking the highway
with two of the humblest creatures of Ireland, and yet, as his soul said,
two of the best.

Stalking along in thought, he suddenly became conscious that Michael and
Christopher had fallen behind. He turned round.

"Come on. Come on with me." But the two shook their heads.