It was, then, with some astonishment I heard the boy upon the wheeler ask whither he should drive me to.
“Tell his honor to wake up; we’re in Cork now.”
“In Cork! Impossible, already!”
“Faith, may be so; but it’s Cork, sure enough.”
“Drive to the ‘George.’ It’s not far from the commander-in-chief’s quarters.”
“‘Tis five minutes’ walk, sir. You’ll be there before they’re put to again.”
“Horses for Fermoy!” shouted out the postilions, as we tore up to the door in a gallop. I sprang out, and by the assistance of the waiter, discovered Sir Henry Howard’s quarters, to whom my despatches were addressed. Having delivered them into the hands of an aide-de-camp, who sat bolt upright in his bed, rubbing his eyes to appear awake, I again hurried down-stairs, and throwing myself into the chaise, continued my journey.
“Them’s beautiful streets, any how!” said Mike, “av they wasn’t kept so dirty, and the houses so dark, and the pavement bad. That’s Mr. Beamish’s, that fine house there with the brass rapper and the green lamp beside it; and there’s the hospital. Faix, and there’s the place we beat the police when I was here before; and the house with the sign of the Highlander is thrown down; and what’s the big building with the stone posts at the door?”
“The bank, sir,” said the postilion, with a most deferential air as Mike addressed him. “What bank, acushla?”
“Not a one of me knows, sir; but they call it the bank, though it’s only an empty house.”