“Yes; there’s an office in the village.”
“You’ll find some forms in my writing-case on the table; write it for me, like a good fellow.”
“Anything I can do for you, Boxall, will give me the sincerest pleasure,” said General Grampound, opening the writing-case. “They are all deucedly sorry to hear of your being laid up—enquiring after you at lunch and all that, specially a certain young lady—hum——”
“Indeed!” said Mr Boxall, without emotion; then with a sudden snarl: “I wish I could telegraph myself out of this infernal place! Ireland for the Irish—egad, it’s the only place for them—den of wild beasts!”
“I’ve always said myself the only thing for Ireland was the old Duke’s—the great Duke’s suggestion,” said General Grampound, spreading out the telegraph form. “Sink it for half an hour in the sea and let the beggars drown like rats or swim to America. Here’s the telegraph form—what’s your message?”
“Write,” said Mr Boxall, after a moment’s consideration—“write, ‘Hawksley, Oxford St., London.’”
The General did as he was directed.
“Got that done?” asked Mr Boxall.
“Yes.”
“Now write—let me see—wait a moment—yes—write,