CHAPTER XII. The Room in the Cupola
Mr. Carewe returned, one warm May afternoon, by the six o'clock boat, which was sometimes a day late and sometimes a few hours early; the latter contingency arising, as in the present instance, when the owner was aboard. Nelson drove him from the wharf to the bank, where he conferred briefly, in an undertone, with Eugene Madrillon; after which Eugene sent a note containing three words to Tappingham Marsh. Marsh tore up the note, and sauntered over to the club, where he found General Trumble and Jefferson Bareaud amicably discussing a pitcher of cherry bounce.
“He has come,” said Tappingham, pleased to find the pair the only occupants of the place. “He saw Madrillon, and there's a session to-night.”
“Praise the Lord!” exclaimed the stout General, rising to his feet. “I'll see old Chenoweth at once. My fingers have the itch.”
“And mine, too,” said Bareaud. “I'd begun to think we'd never have a go with him again.”
“You must see that Crailey comes. We want a full table. Drag him, if you can't get him any other way.”
“He won't need urging,” said Jefferson.
“But he cut us last time.”
“He won't cut tonight. What hour?”