I remembered the marked politeness which he had lavished upon Peter Crotty, and marvelled that his lordship had not the civility to even bid “good morning” to a gentleman, who had risked a broken neck to carry him a sheet-full of hieroglyphics.
I obeyed the order; and intending to hold myself, in readiness, in the event of his lordship requiring any further information respecting the singular manner in which the intercepted despatch had been obtained and confided to me, was seeking some place wherein I might deposit my person in the interim, when whom should I stumble on in the street, but the fortunate object of the Great Captain’s hospitality—Lieutenant Crotty!
“Arrah!—murder—is it you?” was Peter’s opening inquiry.
I assured him of my identity.
“And who would have expected to meet ye here?” continued Peter; “and what the divil druv ye back?”
“Why—I returned on an errand similar to your own on the morning of that auspicious day when I had the pleasure of first making your acquaintance.”
“And what was that?” demanded Mr. Crotty—“for upon my conscience I forget it.”
“Nothing more, than to transact a little private business with Lord Wellington.”
“Have ye met him yet?” inquired Peter.
“Merely on the road; I expect, however, to be favoured with an evening interview.”