“Well, it’s trying to a sinner,” said F., with a slight laugh; for he was one of those happy-natured dogs who are not indifferent to the absurd side of even their own mishaps. “How long does the post take to England?”
“Three days.”
“And three back—that makes six; a week—an entire week.”
“Omitting Sunday,” said the grave attaché, who really felt an interest in the other’s dilemma.
“All I can say is, it was no fault of mine,” cried F., after a moment. “If I am detained here through their negligence, they must make the best excuse they can. Have you got a cigar?” This was said with his eyes fixed on a roll of Cubans on the table.
“Take one,” said the other.
“Thanks,” said F., as he selected three. “I’ll drop in to-morrow, and hope to have better luck.”
“How much money do you want?” asked Mr L.
“Enough to carry me to London.”
“How much is that?”