“Do you know what is in this letter?” repeated the lieutenant sharply.
“Something about beef cattle, I believe, sir,” answered Dicky, returning to the contemplation of his steed.
It was an ordinary letter enough, but still the lieutenant did not seem able to persuade himself that it was exactly what it appeared to be. He could scarcely imagine, though, that a compromising letter would be sent by a boy, and, moreover, a boy who loitered by the road-side singing songs. It occurred to him that he could find out something of the value of the letter by the price that was paid Dicky for taking it.
“Look here, my lad,” he said suddenly; “how much are you to get if you deliver this letter and bring a reply?”
“Two shillings, sir,” promptly replied Dicky; “but if I don’t deliver it, I ain’t to get anything.”
“That settles it,” said the young officer more to himself than to Dicky. “A two-shilling messenger is not likely to be charged with serious undertakings. You may go, youngster.”
“Thank you, sir.”
And the next minute Dicky had darted out of the door and, seizing old Blackberry, was off at a smarter trot than Blackberry had known for a good many years.
Dicky arrived at Tiverton about nine o’clock and easily found the solid, substantial Barton mansion.
Mr. Barton was standing on the broad brick porch when Dicky swung himself off Blackberry and, holding his shabby cap in his hand, presented the letter.