'What do you think of all this?' said Colonel Talbot, to whom
Waverley handed the letters after he had perused them.
'Think! it renders thought impossible. It is enough to drive me mad.'
'Be calm, my young friend; let us see what are these dirty scrawls that follow.'
The first was addressed,—
'For Master W. Ruffin, These.'—
'Dear sur, sum of our yong gulpins will not bite, thof I tuold them you shoed me the squoire's own seel. But Tims will deliver you the lettrs as desired, and tell ould Addem he gave them to squoir's bond, as to be sure yours is the same, and shall be ready for signal, and hoy for Hoy Church and Sachefrel, as fadur sings at harvestwhome. Yours, deer Sur,
'H. H.
'Poscriff.—Do'e tell squoire we longs to heer from him, and has dootings about his not writing himself, and Lifetenant Bottler is smoky.'
'This Ruffin, I suppose, then, is your Donald of the Cavern, who has intercepted your letters, and carried on a correspondence with the poor devil Houghton, as if under your authority?'
'It seems too true. But who can Addem be?'