"Ninety-six—ninety-seven!" groaned Squills in a hollow voice.
"I don't believe it!" cried my father, almost in a passion,—"never better nor cooler in my life."
"And the tongue—Look at his tongue, Mrs. Caxton,—a tongue, ma'am, so bright that you could see to read by it!"
"Oh! Austin, Austin!"
"My dear, it is not my tongue that is in fault, I assure you," said my father, speaking through his teeth; "and the man knows no more of my tongue than he does of the Mysteries of Eleusis."
"Put it out then," exclaimed Squills; "and if it be not as I say, you have my leave to go to London and throw your whole fortune into the two great pits you have dug for it. Put it out!"
"Mr. Squills!" said my father, coloring,—"Mr. Squills, for shame!"
"Dear, dear, Austin! your hand is so hot; you are feverish, I am sure."
"Not a bit of it."
"But, sir, only just gratify Mr. Squills," said I, coaxingly.