“I fear I have not”—and the fellow sighed heavily.
“But, may I inquire, wherefore I am deprived of liberty, after having been waylaid, robbed, and nearly murdered?”
The whipper shook his head, while his companion roughly desired me to ask no impertinent questions; then, pointing to the table, on which the hag had placed a quantity of broiled mutton—apparently sufficient for a dozen persons instead of three—he added, in a more encouraging tone, “Take a seat, neighbour; there are few in our trade would treat a gauger so civilly.”
“What do you mean?” I exclaimed. “Fellow, I am no gauger.”
“And pray what do you call yourself?” he added, with a smile.
“An officer.”
“Well, it’s all the same—a gauger and a revenue officer are brothers’ children.”
“I am not in the revenue, but the army—I am a lieutenant in the Twenty-first Fusileers.”
“The devil you are!” ejaculated the whipper, with marked surprise. “Pray, sir, are you not Mr. Parker?”
“No, my name is O’Halloran.”