But he was growing tired of it.
It was very nice to be called “Squire” and receive the respectful homage of all the peasantry and the friendly hand of other squires—men whom he used to look up to in days gone by; but it wasn’t equal to a smashing, rip-tearing rumpus with a cut-throat band of murderous redskins and black-hearted white men.
He was growing rusty and out of practice for the want of use; and, as he thought as much of fighting as a woman does of eating, this humdrum life was not well calculated to suit him.
He walked leisurely into the town, and was saluted on all sides with respect.
When he entered the post-office several voices saluted him:
“The top o’ the marnin’ to ye, Squire Shea.”
“Long life to ye, Squire Shea.”
“And there’s a letther for ye, Esquire Barney Shea,” said the postmaster, handing out a yellow envelope. “It’s from Ameriky.”
“Oh, aye,” mumbled Barney, with a wise look on his mug; “wan a’ me furrin’ correspondents, you moind.”
And then he sat down on the chair and broke the seal of the letter, while around him sat the staring and gaping countrymen, anxious to hear something from the far off land, and looking up with great admiration and respect to the man who had a foreign correspondent.