Mr. Carv. Pray, young man, did you happen to see—(panting for breath) Bless me, I’ve ridden so fast back from Bob’s Fort!
Pat. My master, sir, Mr. O’Blaney, is it? Will I run?
Mr. Carv. No, no—stand still till I have breath.—What I want is a copy of a letter I dropped some where or other—here I think it must have been, when I took out my handkerchief—a copy of a letter to his Excellency—of great consequence. (Mr. CARVER sits down and takes breath.)
Pat. (searching about with officious haste) If it’s above ground, I’ll find it. What’s this?—an old bill: that is not it. Would it be this, crumpled up?—“To His Excellency the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland.”
Mr. Carv. (snatching) No farther, for your life!
Pat. Well then I was lucky I found it, and proud.
Mr. Carv. And well you may be, young man; for I can assure you, on this letter the fate of Ireland may depend. (Smoothing the letter on his knee.)
Pat. I wouldn’t doubt it—when it’s a letter of your honour’s—I know your honour’s a great man at the castle. And plase your honour, I take this opportunity of tanking your honour for the encouragement I got about that little clerk’s place—and here’s a copy of my hand-writing I’d wish to show your honour, to see I’m capable—and a scholard.
Mr. Carv. Hand-writing! Bless me, young man, I have no time to look at your hand-writing, sir. With the affairs of the nation on my shoulders—can you possibly think?—is the boy mad?—that I’ve time to revise every poor scholar’s copy-book?
Pat. I humbly beg your honour’s pardon, but it was only becaase I’d wish to show I was not quite so unworthy to be under (whin you’ve time) your honour’s protection, as promised.