“It’s uncommon soft,” he said, with a grunt. “Who gave it to you to carry?”
“The gintleman.”
“The gintleman, ye blockhead; hasn’t he got a name?” said McSweeny wrathfully.
“He has; it’s written on that paper; but I couldn’t find him when I took the load back.”
“I daresay not,” said McSweeny, dryly. “Well, you’ll need to come up to the Office wid me, till we see what’s in the bundle.”
“I’m an honest man,” said Corny indignantly. “Do you take me for a thafe?”
“Well, you don’t look like one of my bairns,” said McSweeny, in imitation of me; “but you’ll have to trot all the same. Mebbe you don’t know that I’m McSweeny, the detective, that all the books has been writ about?”
“I know the other one,” said Corny simply. “McGovan’ll spake a good word for me.”
“You’ll not need that if your bundle’s all right,” was the lofty reply, and to the Office they went.
The bundle unfortunately was not all right. It contained a deal of rubbish of no use to any one, but it also contained a number of bright-coloured shawls of a certain pattern, which were already down in our list as having been taken from a shop on the Bridge.