CHAPTER XLIV. THE MESSENGER'S FIRST JOURNEY
As the train glided smoothly into the station, M'Caskey passed down the platform, peering into each carriage as if in search of an unexpected friend. “Not come,” muttered he, in a voice of displeasure, loud enough to be heard by the solitary first-class passenger, who soon after emerged with some enormous bags of white linen massively sealed, and bearing addresses in parchment.
“I beg pardon,” said M'Caskey, approaching and touching his hat in salute. “Are you with despatches?”
“Yes,” said the other, in some astonishment at the question.
“Have you a bag for me?” and then suddenly correcting himself with a little smile at the error of his supposing he must be universally known, added, “I mean for the Hon. Colonel Chamberlayne.”
“I have nothing that is not addressed to a legation,” said the other, trying to pass on.
“Strange! they said I should receive some further instructions by the first messenger. Sorry to have detained you,—good-evening.”
The young man—for he was young—was already too deep in an attempt to inquire in French after a carriage, to hear the last words, and continued to ask various inattentive bystanders certain questions about a calèche that ought to have been left by somebody in somebody's care for the use of somebody else.
“Is it true, can you tell me?” said he, running after M'Caskey. “They say that there is no conveyance here over the mountain except the diligence.”