CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE DESPATCH.
I was preparing to visit the town on the following morning, when my attention was attracted by a dialogue which took place beneath my window.
"I say, my good friend," cried a mounted orderly to Mike, who was busily employed in brushing a jacket,--"I say, are you Captain O'Malley's man ?" "The least taste in life o' that same," replied he, with a half-jocular expression.
"Well, then," said the other, "take up these letters to your master.

Be alive, my fine fellow, for they are despatches, and I must have a written return for them." "Won't ye get off and take a drop of somethin' refreshing; the air is cowld this morning." "I can't stay, my good friend, but thank you all the same; so be alive, will you ?" "Arrah, there's no hurry in life.

Sure, it's an invitation to dinner to Lord Wellington or a tea-party at Sir Denny's; sure, my master's bothered with them every day o' th' week: that's the misfortune of being an agreeable creature; and I'd be led into dissipation myself, if I wasn't rear'd prudent." "Well, come along, take these letters, for I must be off; my time is short." "That's more nor your nose is, honey," said Mike, evidently piqued at the little effect his advances had produced upon the Englishman.

"Give them here," continued he, while he turned the various papers in every direction, affecting to read their addresses.
"There's nothing for me here, I see.

Did none of the generals ask after me ?" "You _are_ a queer one!" said the dragoon, not a little puzzled what to make of him.
Mike meanwhile thrust the papers carelessly into his pocket, and strode into the house, whistling a quick-step as he went, with the air of a man perfectly devoid of care or occupation.