Amongst the young men who were of
the party who came up with me from Scotland, there was one with whom I
became particularly intimate, and who was subsequently my comrade. His
name was John Lindsay, a native of Glasgow. He was about my own age, or
perhaps a year older--a lively, active, warm-hearted lad, but of a
restless, roving disposition.
It was, I think, about a fortnight after our arrival in London, that
Lindsay one day, while rummaging a small trunk in the barrack-room,
which had formed the entire of his travelling equipage from Scotland,
stumbled on a letter, with whose delivery he had been entrusted by some
one in Glasgow, but which he had entirely forgotten. It was addressed in
a scrawling hand--"To Susan Blaikie, servant with Henry Wallscourt,
Esq., 19, Grosvenor Square, London."
"Here's a job, Davy," said Lindsay, holding up the letter. "I promised
faithfully to deliver this within an hour after my arrival in London,
and here it is still. But better late than never. Will you go with me
and see the fair maiden to whom this is addressed? It contains, I
believe, a kind of introduction to her, and may perhaps lead to some
sport."
I readily closed with Lindsay's proposal, and in ten minutes after we
set out for Grosvenor Square, which we had no difficulty in finding.
Neither were we long in discovering No.
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