“Was it May’s handwriting?” asked the boy eagerly.
“Sure I don’t know for sartin whose hand it is i’ the inside, but it’s not Miss May’s on the cover. Niver a wan in these parts could write like her—copperplate, no less.”
“Come, George, let’s go back,” said Phil, quickly, “we’ve been looking out for a letter for some days past.”
“It’s not exactly a letter, Master Phil,” said the post-runner slowly.
“Ah, then, she’d never put us off with a newspaper,” said Phil.
“No, it’s a telegram,” returned Mike.
Phil Maylands looked thoughtfully at the ground. “A telegram,” he said, “that’s strange. Are ye sure, Mike?”
“Troth am I.”
Without another word the boy started off at a quick walk, followed by his friend and the post-runner. The latter had to diverge at that place to leave a letter at the house of a man named Patrick Grady. Hence, for a short distance, they followed the same road.
Young Maylands would have passed the house, but as Grady was an intimate friend of George Aspel, he agreed to stop just to shake hands.