"The—the money is here?" stammered the Commandant.
"My dear Major, I hope so—I sincerely hope so," Mr. Fossell answered, with a humorous look around him. "I do most sincerely trust we may be able to meet your demand for—let me see, fifteen-eighteen-six, is it not?—without being forced to put up the shutters." Mr. Fossell chuckled quietly.
The Commandant drew a long breath.
"Always supposing," resumed Mr. Fossell, "that the draft is in order, as usual; on which point, to tell you the truth, I have been too busy to satisfy myself. But the paper arrived two days ago, and is in my office—if you will excuse me for a moment."
He stepped towards a door at the back, panelled with frosted glass, opened it, and disappeared into his office. The Commandant waited. Three minutes passed.
"Very fine weather, sir, for the time of the year," said the clerk, blotting an entry and looking up from his ledger.
"Eh? Oh, certainly ... yes, very fine indeed." The Commandant recalled himself with a painful effort.
"And the glass steady as a rock." The clerk closed a smaller book at his elbow and replaced it in a line of similar volumes on a shelf above the desk behind him. "I saw you out, sir, in your boat, the day before yesterday, to the west of Saaron—fishing for bass, or so I took the liberty of guessing."
"For bass?... Yes, oh, most decidedly."
"Knowing fish, the bass!" hazarded the young man, combing his side-locks with his pen and carefully bestowing it behind his ear. "You found the water a bit too clear, sir, I expect?"