Just at this moment a person to whom Andy was known entered the house, who vouched to the postmaster that he might give Andy the squire’s letter. “Have you one for me?”
“Yes, sir,” said the postmaster, producing one. “Fourpence.”
The gentleman paid the fourpence postage (the story, it must be remembered, belongs to the earlier half of the last century, before the days of the penny post), and left the shop with his letter.
“Here’s a letter for the squire,” said the postmaster. “You’ve to pay me elevenpence postage.”
“What ’ud I pay elevenpence for?”
“For postage.”
“Get out wid you! Didn’t I see you give Mr. Durfy a letther for fourpence this minit, and a bigger letther than this? And now you want me to pay elevenpence for this scrap of a thing? Do you think I’m a fool?”
“No; but I’m sure of it,” said the postmaster.
“Well, you’re welkum, to be sure; but don’t be delayin’ me now. Here’s fourpence for you, and gi’ me the letther.”
“Go along, you stupid thief!” (the word “thief” was often used in Ireland in the humorous way we sometimes use the word “rascal”) said the postmaster, taking up the letter, and going to serve a customer with a mouse-trap.