The nurse reappeared with Barney.
“Well, Barney, where’s the letter?” said Mr Rainscourt; “let me look at it.”
“Sure, your honour, it’s not me that’s refusing it ye. But the master tould me—‘Barney,’ says he, ‘if you give his honour the letter without the two thirteens in your fist, it’s a good bating that I’ll give ye when ye come back.’”
“Well, but, Barney, let me look at it, and see by the postmark where it’s from. I shall know, directly, whether I will take it up or not.”
“And suppose that your honour should wish to open the letter! It’s not for gentlemen like ye to be standing against the temptation;—and then, the two thirteens, your honour.”
“Well, Barney, since you won’t trust me, and I have no money, you must take the letter back. It might bring me good news—I have had nothing but bad of late.”
“And sure enough it might bring you good news. Then, your honour shall take the letter and I’ll take the bating;” and the good-natured lad pulled out the letter from his pocket, and gave it to Rainscourt.
Rainscourt, who first wished to ascertain whether it was one of his usual dunning correspondents, examined the post-mark and handwriting of the superscription, that he might return it unopened, and save poor Barney from the beating which he had volunteered to receive for his sake, but the hand was unknown to him, and the post-mark was so faint and illegible that he could not decipher it. He looked into the sides of the letter, and the few words which he could read whetted his curiosity.
“I’m afraid, Barney, that I must open it.”
“Good luck to your honour, then, and may it prove so.”