“Well, I’ve convinced the boy, somewhat, against his will, I own, that a few thousands spent on the invention I have now on hand will bring in a much larger fortune to Maida than that I have perhaps rather recklessly expended. It was just so when I was perfecting my first invention, don’t you remember? Every dollar I spent on it was begrudged me, and yet see what an outcome there was to it at last.”
“Yes, yes; but where is all that money now?” queried old Cheeseborough, wagging his iron gray head. “Nobody here ever saw a dollar of it, and I have heard people say they don’t believe you ever got it.”
“Would you bring up the saddest hours of my life?” asked Earle, with a sudden cloud on his brow. “I got the money, but—” he stopped, shook himself and changed his tone for one of cheerful command. “Here, you! Start a fresh game, Emmons. I see that your checkmate is good. I’ve got to write a letter. Who will bet that I won’t get my six pages done before Hale will succeed in getting three men into the king row?”
“I will!”
“Put down your dollar then!”
“There it is.”
“And there’s mine, with a condition to boot. I’ll write the letter in this room, and give Cheeseborough another chance at a song, if you say so.”
“Done! Fire away, old man; here goes my first move!”
“And here my first word.”
And, to Clarke’s mingled surprise and disgust, Earle threw himself down before a table, took up a pen and began to write. Cheeseborough piped up with his thin, sweet voice something between a dirge and a chant, and Horton went on with his oaths.