"No hurry, sir, if you're not goin' on. If you are, there'll be time to take a dander up the town an' get a bit of dinner."
"Indeed? I didn't know you made a long stop here," said the youth, pausing in his occupation of locking a small portmanteau.
"No more we do. We're supposed to skelp along wid the letters for Ballintaggart beyant the mountains there. But you see, sir"—insinuatingly—"the driver's gone to see his sweetheart. That's how we got in so early. Tim is the boy for not lettin' the grass grow under the thrain when he has a mind. I remember when this ould thrain was bet in a race wid a pig; but Tim's put another face on her."
"Oh—indeed. And when will you start again?"
"Whenever your honour likes. I wouldn't be for hurryin' a gentleman over his dinner, to say nothin' of Tim, that's a dacent boy, an' deserves a good turn."
The traveller laughed with an enjoyment that lit up a face grave in repose.
"You don't mind letting the people at Ballin—what's-its-name?—wait for their letters?"
"Och, surely not. Maybe 'tis a week before some o' them 'ud hear be chance there was a letter for 'em at the post-office, an' be that time every wan in the place'll know what's in it. It'll be: 'There's a letter below at the post-office for you, Judy, wid an order in it for a pound from your Uncle Con in Philadelphy'; or, 'Miss Geraghty below at the post-office was tellin' me there's grand news from the daughter in New York—twins, no less, an' all doin' well.' Sure, the people themselves is the last to hear, barrin' the polis."
"But why should the police be in the dark?" asked the young gentleman, as he finally concluded putting his traps together. "Here, help me out with these, please. I'm getting off here, or I'd be delighted to fix the hour for going on."
Mat Connor, the guard, beckoned to Pat Sheehan.