"Didn't I often tell you to ask what you're to do, when you don't know?"—"Yis, sir."
"And why don't you?"—"I don't like to be throublesome, sir."
"Confound you!" said the squire; though he could not help laughing at Andy's excuse for remaining in ignorance.
"Well," continued he, "go to the post-office. You know the post-office, I suppose?"—"Yis, sir; where they sell gunpowdher."
"You're right for once," said the squire; for his Majesty's postmaster was the person who had the privilege of dealing in the aforesaid combustible. "Go then to the post-office, and ask for a letter for me. Remember,—not gunpowder, but a letter."
"Yis, sir," said Andy, who got astride of his hack, and trotted away to the post-office. On arriving at the shop of the postmaster, (for that person carried on a brisk trade in groceries, gimlets, broad-cloth, and linen-drapery,) Andy presented himself at the counter, and said,
"I want a letther, sir, if you plase."
"Who do you want it for?" said the postmaster, in a tone which Andy considered an aggression upon the sacredness of private life: so Andy thought the coolest contempt he could throw upon the prying impertinence of the postmaster was to repeat his question.
"I want a letther, sir, if you plase."
"And who do you want it for?" repeated the postmaster.