“But, of course,” said another, “your story does not end there.”
“And where the devil would you have it end?” replied he. “Didn’t I bring my hero home, and go asleep afterwards myself, and then, with virtue rewarded, how could I finish it better?”
“Oh, of course; but still you have not accounted for a principal character in the narrative,” said I.
“Exactly so,” said Curzon. “We were all expecting some splendid catastrophe in the morning; that your companion turned out to be the Duke of Leinster, at least—or perhaps a rebel general, with an immense price upon his head.”
“Neither the one nor the other,” said Fin, drily.
“And do you mean to say there never was any clue to the discovery of him?”
“The entire affair is wrapt in mystery to this hour,” said he. “There was a joke about it, to be sure, among the officers; but the North Cork never wanted something to laugh at.”
“And what was the joke?” said several voices together.
“Just a complaint from old Mickey Oulahan, the postmaster, to the Colonel, in the morning, that some of the officers took away his blind mare off the common, and that the letters were late in consequence.”
“And so, Doctor,” called out seven or eight, “your friend turned out to be—”