“And why don’t you?”
“I don’t like to be troublesome, sir.”
“Confound you!” said the squire, though he could not help laughing at Andy’s excuse for remaining in ignorance. “Well, go to the post-office. You know the post-office, I suppose?” continued his master in sarcastic tones.
“Yes, sir; where they sell gunpowder.”
“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.”
“Yes, 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, broadcloth, and linen-drapery), Andy presented himself at the counter, and said:
“I want a letther, sir, if you plaze.”
“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, in his ignorance and pride, thought the coolest contempt he could throw upon the prying impertinence of the postmaster was to repeat his question.
ANDY HAS A VERY FOOLISH QUARREL
WITH THE POSTMASTER