He conducted me cautiously and tenderly up the stairs,
lighting the way and protecting me with friendly warnings,
then pushed the door open and bowed me in and went his way,
mumbling hearty things about my wonderful eye for points of a dog. Mr. Daly was
writing and had his back to me. He glanced over his shoulder presently,
then jumped up and said—
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HE LIGHTED ME UP THE STAIRS.
"Oh, dear me, I forgot all about giving instructions. I was just writing you to beg a thousand pardons. But how is it you are here? How did you get by that Irishman? You are the first man that's done it in five and twenty years. You didn't bribe him, I know that; there's not money enough in New York to do it. And you didn't persuade him; he is all ice and iron: there isn't a soft place nor a warm one in him anywhere. What is your secret? Look here; you owe me a hundred dollars for unintentionally giving you a chance to perform a miracle—for it is a miracle that you've done."
"That is all right," I said, "collect it of Jimmy Lewis."
That good dog not only did me that good turn in the time of my need, but he won for me the envious reputation among all the theatrical people from the Atlantic to the Pacific of being the only man in history who had ever run the blockade of Augustin Daly's back door.
