ten minutes past seven
He had no more idea than a spring lamb how we were to get to Rye , but thought perhaps a coach set out at that hour in the morning . When I told him I had a horse saddled and waiting for him , he was pleased , for Father Donovan could scamper across the country in Ireland with the best of them . So far as I could judge , the coast was clear , for every one we met between the `` Pig and Turnip '' and the bridge seemed honest folk intent on getting early to their work . It was ten minutes past seven when we clattered across the bridge and set our faces toward Rye . Looking back over my long life I scarcely remember any day more pleasant than that I spent riding side by side with Father Donovan from London to Rye . The fine old man had a fund of entertaining stories , and although I had heard them over and over again there was always something fresh in his way of telling them , and now and then I recognized a narrative that had once made two separate stories , but which had now become welded into one in the old man 's mind . There was never anything gloomy in these anecdotes , for they always showed the cheerful side of life and gave courage to the man that wanted to do right ; for in all of Father Donovan 's stories the virtuous were always made happy .