squeezing up his velvet cap between his angry hands, “I have half a million of his signatures, I think! But you,” breathlessly recovering his mildness of speech as Judy readjusts the cap on his skittle-ball of a head, “you, my dear Mr. George, are likely to have some letter or paper that would suit the purpose. Anything would suit the purpose, written in the hand.”
“Some writing in that hand,” says the trooper, pondering; “maybe, I have.”
“My dearest friend!”
“Maybe, I have not.”
“Ho!” says Grandfather Smallweed, crestfallen.
“But if I had bushels of it, I would not show as much as would make a cartridge without knowing why.”
“Sir, I have told you why. My dear Mr. George, I have told you why.”
“Not enough,” says the trooper, shaking his head. “I must know more, and approve it.”
“Then, will you come to the lawyer? My dear friend, will you come and see the gentleman?” urges Grandfather Smallweed, pulling out a lean old silver watch with hands like the leg of a skeleton. “I told him it was probable I might call upon him between ten and eleven this forenoon, and it’s now half after ten. Will you come and see the gentleman, Mr. George?”
“Hum!” says he gravely. “I don’t mind that. Though why this should concern you so much, I don’t know.”
“Everything concerns me that has a chance in it of bringing anything to light about him. Didn’t he take us all in? Didn’t he owe us immense