The Washburn leader. [volume] (Washburn, McLean County, N.D.) 1890-1986, 1900-12-15

when I reached an open space I slack
ened speed and waited for him. .
Have you any business with me?"
asked.
Yes. signor. You are English. vii
you read this letter and e me a,
answer to it? It is from one OF you,
countrymen. If the signor would b,
so kind, I would wait for him or hi,
messenger here, at nine O'Clock tomor
row evening""
And with that he mirgled with tn,
passers-by and was soon lost to sight
n mans speech, like his dress
smacked Of the country, and, wonder.
Ing who my correspondent could be
n why an answer must needs bt
carried by special messenger I hurried
home and undid the packet. And firsI
I came upon al ill-writtetn scrawl
n 1t took me some time to make II
out. for many Of the words were
wrongly spelt, and others belonged te
a patoit with which I was not very
familiar: but I made shift to translate
1t, and 1t bade the person into whose
hands it might fall to read the accom-
panying letter from the Signor Ma.
guire, and to give the answer as the
bearer had directed. Should there be
any attempt at t%reachery the reaedr's
life would pay for 1t.
I had scarcely any need to peruse the
inclosed epistle to tell me that T was
dealing with brigands, these pests of
society. I had fastened to read my
countryman's letter. 1t ran as fol-
lows
Here am !, James Murtagh Mcguire,
of Clare County, ireland, in the hands
of Italian brigands, and my company
is so highly esteemed that they won't
part with me under a hundred pounds.
Eve only n relative in the world, an
old miser Of an uncle, by name Phelim
Mcguire, of the town of Clonmel, but
the deuce a penny he'd pay for me,
seeing that he was always prophesying
that I'd go to the bad, and. by this
and that. it's there I'm landed. They're
a pleasant set of scamps that I'm with,
drinking your health one minute
though, by the same token, the wines
poor stuff-and politely telling you
that they're going to cut your throat
the next. and asking you when it
would be convenient for you to have
it done. I believe it's their intention
to get rid of me piecemeal, for when I
I made them Understandable it's
wonderful how poor they are at their
own language-that I'd a relative at
some distance, they limited that he
might take a polite attention If they
sent him n of my ears. Well, they
want G1oo by this day week, and
they've made. me write this to be taken
to Rome to n of my countrymen. I
don't know whom they mistake me for
"a lord, maybe; but, of course this Is
the penalty you pay for being dis
tinguished looking.
You'll be wondering how I came into
this fix, and whether, If you get me
out of it, I'm ever likely to pay you.
I'm a poor fellow on tramp, learning
the ways of the c~ountry-and mighty
free and easy they are-doing a bit
Of painting and taking a few notes for
a book, and I was sketching when they
snapped me up, I don't know the name
of the place where I'm staying, and
I'm very hazy as to the date, but some
time about now there should be 45o
or so waiting for me in the bank at
Naples. If you care to advance m
hundred I can hand over the fifty, u
when you'd get the other fifty Is more
than Jim Mcguire can tell you. AS 1
said, or meant to say I'm only writing
this to keep them in good humou Tor
awhile, and my solemn advice is that
you don't give them a cent. Maybe, as
they think SO much of me, they might
make me one Of themselves, and 1T Is
an elegant dress they have, and myself
would look we'll in it. Anyway, I don't
think that what's left Of me Is worth
fifty pounds, and it's always a good
maxim never to buy a pig in a poke.
The ink is little better than water,
and elbow-room isn't plenty, so that 1
can't produce as elegant an epistle Is
I could wish to do. If they're Tor KILL
ing me, I've no one to mourn Tor me
and maybe I'd sleep just as soundly
under the sod here as I would II the
green turf of old Ireland was covering
me. It's been a diversion to write this,
and if you could only catch the fellow
who brings it, and crack his SKULL
you'd have demon the less In the
world. and you would be doing q
service to yours. in haste and the
bonds of the brigands Il won't give
the beggars a capital "b"),
James Murtagh Mcguire
It was a curious letter, and there
was a sufficiently strong u~nder-current
of sadness in it to show that the
writer fully appreciated the gravity OF
his position, and in the advice anent
the messenger there appeared n
typical recklessness of the Irishman.
1 had money and to spare, and re-
Numbering my OWL feelings when !
saw my father playing for his life, and
knowing full we'll that this Mcguire
would, in all probability, be killed un-
less the ransom were forthcoming, l
determined to run the risk OF losing
the hundred pounds; and SO sent r
that I would pay 1t. I took the note
myself and gave it to the messenger.
and within three days I was shaking
Maguire's hand and looking into his
handsome face.
He was considerably older than !,
somewhere near forty. but his race
was lined with the marks of trouble,
which, however. had no yet dimmed
the luster Of his blue eyes. nor robbed
him of his merry laugh. He was fairly
tall, but Of perfect form, and with an
upright carriage that bespoke n
soldier.
He was so grateful for the
shown him that for q while ne couid
find no words to express his gratitude,
but stood wringing my hand with the
tears dimming his large eyes. untilsat
last, his Irish nature asserting itsetl !,