"I have, sir, and it's myself would be glad to carry you and your lady there."
"All right," I agreed; and then, as an afterthought, "How much will you charge?"
"Not a penny, sir," he protested warmly. "Not a penny."
I stared at him. I confess I didn't understand. He returned my stare with a broad smile.
"The Dublin train doesn't go for an hour yet, sir," he went on. "If you'll just be wanderin' down this way when the time comes, you'll find me ready."
"It's mighty kind of you," I said hesitatingly; "but we couldn't think of troubling you. . . ."
"Niver a bit of trouble, sir," he broke in. "I'll be that proud to do it."
He seemed so sincerely in earnest that we finally agreed, and he raced away as he had come, while we went on to the village post-office to mail a postcard—and perhaps find some one else to talk to.
The post-office was a little cubby-hole of a place, in charge of a white-haired, withered little old woman, whom we found very ready to talk indeed. At first there were the inevitable questions about America and about our family history, and then she told us about herself and her work and the many things she had to do. For every Irish post-office, no matter how small, is the centre of many activities. Not only does it handle the village mail, but it is also the village telegraph-office, and it does the work—by means of the parcel-post—which in this country has been done until quite recently by the express companies. Furthermore it is at the post-office that the old age pensions are disbursed and the multifarious details of the workman's insurance act attended to.
The latter is too complicated to be explained here, but we soon had a demonstration of the working of the old age pension, for, as we sat there talking, a wrinkled old woman with a shabby shawl over her head, came in, said something we did not understand, held out her hand, was given three or four pennies, and walked quickly out.