“Is n't this for all the world like raising a regiment out of twenty volunteer corps?” said M'Cormick.
“Dill would call it an hospital of incurables,” said Barrington. “Have you got a knave of spades and a seven? Oh dear, dear! the knave, with the head off him! I begin to suspect we must look up a new pack.” There was a tone of misgiving in the way he said this; for it implied a reference to his sister, and all its consequences. Affecting to search for new cards in his own room, therefore, he arose and went out.
“I wouldn't live in a slavery like that,” muttered the Major, “to be King of France.”
“Something has occurred here. There is some latent source of irritation,” said Dill, cautiously. “Barrington's own manner is fidgety and uneasy. I have my suspicion matters are going on but poorly with them.”
While this sage diagnosis was being uttered, M'Cormick had taken a short excursion into the adjoining room, from which he returned, eating a pickled onion. “It's the old story; the cold roast loin and the dish of salad. Listen! Did you hear that shout?”
“I thought I heard one awhile back; but I fancied afterwards it was only the noise of the river over the stones.”
“It is some fellows drawing the river; they poach under his very windows, and he never sees them.”
“I 'm afraid we 're not to have our rubber this evening,” said Dill, mournfully.
“There's a thing, now, I don't understand!” said M'Cormick, in a low but bitter voice. “No man is obliged to see company, but when he does do it, he oughtn't to be running about for a tumbler here and a mustard-pot there. There's the noise again; it's fellows robbing the salmon-weir!”
“No rubber to-night, I perceive that,” reiterated the doctor, still intent upon the one theme.