“Yes; that is my name.”
“And are you from the North of Ireland,—near the Causeway?”
Tony nodded, while a flush of shame at the recognition covered his face.
“And do you know Dr. Stewart, the Presbyterian minister in that neighborhood?”
“I should think so. The Burnside, where he lives, is not above a mile from us.”
“That's it,—the Burnside,—that's the name of it. I'm as glad as fifty pounds in my pocket to see you, Mr. Butler,” cried he, grasping Tony's hand in both his own. “There 's not a man from this to England I 'd as soon have met as yourself. I 'm Sam M'Grader, Robert M'Grader's brother. You have n't forgot him, I hope?”
“That I haven't,” cried Tony, warmly returning the honest pressure of the other's hand. “What a stupid dog I have been not to remember that you lived here! and I have a letter for you, too, from your brother!”
“I want no letter of introduction with you, Mr. Butler; come home with me. You 're not going to sea this time;” and, taking a pen, he drew a broad line of ink across Tony's name; and then turning, he whispered a few words in the consul's ear.
“I hope,” said the consul, “Mr. Butler is not offended at the freedom with which I commented on him.”
“Not in the least,” said Tony, laughing. “I thought at the time, if you knew me you would not have liked to have suggested my having been a runaway convict; and now that you do know me, the shame you feel is more than enough to punish you.”