Our hero was now giving his invention a prodigious quantity of superfluous trouble; and upon this occasion, as upon most others, he was more in danger from excess than deficiency of ingenuity: he was like the man in the fairy tale, who was obliged to tie his legs lest he should outrun the object of which he was in pursuit. The Scotch officer, though his eyes were fixed on the letters PO’S., had none of the suspicions which Phelim was counteracting; he was only considering how he could ask for the third place in Sir John’s chaise during the next stage, as he was in great haste to get to town upon particular business, and there were no other horses at the inn. When he heard that the heavy baggage was to go by the waggon, he took courage and made his request. It was instantly granted by the good-natured Hibernian, who showed as much hospitality about his chaise as if it had been his house. Away they drove as fast as they could. Fresh dangers awaited him at the next inn. He left his hat upon the table in the hall whilst he went into the parlour, and when he returned, he heard some person inquiring what Irish gentleman was there. Our hero was terribly alarmed, for he saw that his hat was in the inquirers hand, and he recollected that the name of Phelim O’Mooney was written in it. This the inquisitive gentleman did not see, for it was written in no very legible characters on the leather withinside of the front; but “F. Guest, hatter, Damestreet, Dublin,” was a printed advertisement that could not be mistaken, and _that_ was pasted within the crown. O’Mooney’s presence of mind did not forsake him upon this emergency. “My good sir,” said he, turning to Queasy, who, without hearing one word of what was passing, was coming out of the parlour, with his own hat and gloves in his hand; “My good sir,” continued he, loading him with parcels, “will you have the goodness to see these put into my carriage? Ill take care of your hat and gloves,” added O’Mooney, in a low voice. Queasy surrendered his hat and gloves instantly, unknowing wherefore; then squeezed forward with his load through the crowd, crying--“Waiter! hostler! pray, somebody put these into Sir John Bull’s chaise.”