“What do you mean?”
“He wouldn’t give it to me, sir.”
“Who wouldn’t give it to you?”
“That ould chate beyant in the town—wanting to charge double for it.”
“Maybe it’s a double letter. Why the devil didn’t you pay what he asked, sir?”
“Arrah, sir, why would I let you be chated? It’s not a double letther at all; not above half the size o’ one Mr. Durfy got before my face for fourpence.”
“You’ll provoke me to break your neck some day, you vagabond! Ride back for your life, you omadhaun; and pay whatever he asks, and get me the letter.”
“Why, sir, I tell you he was sellin’ them before my face for fourpence apiece.”
“Go back, you scoundrel! or I’ll horsewhip you; and if you’re longer than a hour, I’ll have you ducked in the horsepond!”
Andy vanished, and made a second visit to the post-office. When he arrived two other persons were getting letters, and the postmaster was selecting the epistles for each from a large parcel that lay before him on the counter; at the same time many shop customers were waiting to be served.