“Thin ’tis Peter the Squire you’ll be manin’; and by the same token, his is the shop f’ninst ye, across the way.”
Breeze afterwards learned that, having held some small political office, Wolfe’s father had been dignified by his fellow-townsmen with the title of “Squire.” He was very proud of this, and always insisted upon being addressed by it.
Now, looking in the direction indicated, the lad saw the sign, “Peter Brady, Linen Draper,” staring him in the face, and thanking the man, he hurried across the street.
An old porter, who was putting up the shutters, told him that the squire had driven away in a carriage a few minutes before with a stranger, and had left word that he should not be back that night.
Where did he live! Why, about two miles from there, away out on the edge of the city, but a cab would take him there in no time.
There were no cabs for Breeze that evening, and so he walked, and inquired his way from one and another. At last, after more than two hours’ persevering labor, he found himself lifting the knocker of a small but neat-looking house some distance outside of the town, in which he had been told that Squire Brady lived.
The maid who answered the knock said the squire was at home, and wouldn’t the gentleman step into the parlor. When she asked what name she should announce, he told her to say that it was a friend of the son who was in America.
After she had gone, he could not help overhearing a whispered consultation that took place in the hall. While he was wondering about it, a quick footstep approached the room, and the next moment the door was opened by his old dorymate, Wolfe Brady.
It would be hard to tell which of the two boys was the more astonished at this meeting. Perhaps Wolfe had the better reason for amazement, at seeing the friend from whom he had been parted thousands of miles from there, under circumstances that led him to fear he was dead.
“Breeze!”