But the Agent thought otherwise, under the circumstances, and deemed it best, at all events, to ascertain in a careful way its truth or falsity.
By the aid of a reliable day clerk, who lived in Brooklyn, in the neighborhood of Pat, I learned the name and general standing of the physician whom he had employed. An interview with him, supposed on his part to be for the purpose of ascertaining whether Pat was a man of strictly temperate habits, and in all respects fit to be employed in a post office, confirmed the part of his story relating to the child's death, but disproved the rest of it, about his own illness. But the doctor went the whole figure in regard to Pat's good character and fitness for any place which was not too intellectual. I could see, however, that my referee cared more about keeping a paying customer, (all professional charges, as he stated, having been fully liquidated up to that date,) than for posting me up in any matters that would jeopardize so good a situation, where all the monthly payments were in hard and legal currency.
By this step I obtained the first tangible justification of my suspicions against Pat. He had assigned, in part at least, a false reason for his absence. At about the same time, I consulted one of the Brooklyn penny-posts, whose beat took in Pat's residence, and who reported that he had on several occasions recently met him with a gun on his shoulder, apparently starting on a hunting excursion.
He was very poor when he entered the office, and by way of testing his ability to live without work, it was arranged with an agent for procuring laborers for a Western railroad, to call on him, and offer him a chance to go to Illinois as foreman of a gang of hands. But it was "no go." His health was too precarious for that.
Thus matters went on for some time longer, when one day, very much to my surprise, Pat entered the post master's room, and with a woe-begone look, and most melancholy tone of voice, commenced apologizing for his apparent neglect of duty. I was busily engaged in writing at the time, and so continued, hoping that he would not recognise me, as it afterwards appeared he did not.
"Misther Fowler," says he, "I wish to spake to your honor about meself. Ye see, sir, I've been unfortunate, and didn't come to me task; and the cause is, sir, that I've been sick meself with a terrible diarrhoee (placing his hand on his abdominal region,) and what is more painful than that (still keeping his hand in the same position, instead of changing it to the region of the heart,) I have buried a darling boy, your honor; and sure isn't it enough to turn the brain of a poor divil? Ah, may the like on't niver happen to yourself, sir!"