Judy Flynn was the mistress of a secondary makeshift post office, where the mail car picked up a small bag, en route from village to village; and Mrs. Flynn held a licence to sell stamps, as well as tobacco and tea. Judy was a widow—a character, and a notorious gossip. All the news in the county emanated from “the cross.” And if tales were true, no wonder. Judy kept a kettle handy and opened and read every letter that seemed to her to be of general interest! It was she who made known how John MacCarthy was owing for seed-potatoes nigh on three years, and likely to be put in court. How Mary Hannigan’s boy had gone back on her! Why the Connors were leaving Moreen, and when old Murphy had married his cook. Her shop was a place of the wildest, maddest confusion; behind the little counter letters, parcels, canisters of tobacco, pipes, old newspapers, herrings, and packets of tea, were inextricably mixed with portions of Mrs. Flynn’s wardrobe.
“If ye will only lave me alone, and don’t moider me, I can lay me hand on everything,” was her invariable boast. Her business methods were at least original. Sometimes she went out, locked the door after her, and left the yawning post-bag hanging on a nail, where the passer-by might post (or extract) letters, precisely as he or she pleased.
But Judy Flynn, stout survival of old times and ways, continued to flourish in spite of numerous complaints from afar. When brought to book, she wept torrents of tears, assuming the attitude of a persecuted, hard-working widow woman. She had strong local interest; her backers were sensible that if Judy was superseded, they would lose much exciting and unexpected information; and as her office was a mere cross-post, serving a small insignificant district, Judy remained.
One beautiful June afternoon Judy beckoned to Mary Foley, who was passing her door.
“See here, acushla,” she cried, “there’s been a bit of a parcel for ye this whiles back. It come one evening, and I put it up safe, and forgot it, till I found it ’ere last week behind the meal-chest, when I was looking for a spool. Being a parcel, it’s no harm; if it was a letter I’d be main sorry; an’ here it is”—dusting it as she spoke.
“For me?” said Mary incredulously.
“Yes. Ye don’t trouble the post much; all yer boys are within spakin’ distance of ye. That thing looks like a book, and is from India.”
“India!” repeated the girl confusedly. “Sure I know no one out there!”
“Oh, yes, me darlin’, ye know wan,” replied Mrs. Flynn, with a significant nod. “I can’t say if it’s in his writing, for the Castle letters does not come this way.”