"Is Ould Michael in?" I asked, forgetting for the moment his proper
name.
"In where?" asked the man behind the counter.
"The postoffice," I replied. "Doesn't he keep the postoffice?"
"Not much," he answered, with an insolent laugh; "it's not much he could
keep, unless it's whisky."
"Perhaps you can tell me where he is?" I asked, keeping my temper down,
for I longed to reach for his throat.
"You'll find him boozing in one of the saloons, like enough, the old
sot."
I walked out without further word, for the longing for his throat grew
almost more than I could bear, and went across to Paddy Dougan's. Paddy
expressed great delight at seeing me again and, on my asking for Ould
Michael, became the picture of woe.
Four months ago the postoffice had been taken from Ould Michael and set
up in Jacob Wragge's store, and with the old soldier things had gone
badly ever since.
"The truth is, an' I'll not desave you," said Paddy, adopting a
confidential undertone, "he's drinkin' too much and he is."
"And where is he? And where's his flag?"
"His flag is it?" Paddy shook his head as if to say, "Now you _have_
touched the sore spot.
Pages:
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33