"The poet is our first card," replied her husband, searching his pocket and producing a letter. "The Maryland should be here to-morrow or next day. Upon my word, Nellie, I don't want to ask questions, but you've done exceedingly well."
"Better than well, me dear. I've found a place—an illigant hidin' in an owld schooner up the river."
"Safe?"
"As a church. I'll take yez to't to-morra. Master Sam tells me sorra a sowl goes nigh ut. He tuk me to see ut. I say, me darlint, I'd be lettin' that young fool down aisier than the pote. He's a poor little snob, but he's more like a man than Moggridge."
"He's a bad ass, is Moggridge," assented the Honourable Frederic. "Come, Nellie, we've a day's work before us, remember."
A friend of mine, the son of steady-going Nihilist parents, and therefore an authority, assures me that the Honourable Frederic cannot have been a conspirator for the simple reason that he shaved his chin regularly. Be this as it may, to-night he smiled mysteriously as he rose, and winked at his wife in a most plebeian way. I regret to say that both smile and wink were returned.
Winked … in a most plebeian way.