“Every fellow is n't born as sharp as you, Davis. Samson was a wise man—no, Solomon was a wise man—”
“Leave Samson and Solomon where they are,” said Grog, puffing his cigar. “What we have to look to here is whether there be a claim at all, and then what it's worth. The whole affair may be just a cross between this fellow Dunn and one of his own pals. Now, it's my Lord's business to see to that. You are only the second horse all this while. If my Lord knows that he can be disqualified, he's wide awake enough to square the match, he is. But it maybe that Dunn hasn't put the thing fairly before him. Well, then, you must compare your book with my Lord's. You'll have to go over to him, Beecher.” And the last words were uttered with a solemnity that showed they were the result of a deep deliberation.
“It's all very well, Master Davis, to talk of going over to Italy; but where's the tin to come from?”
“It must be had somehow,” said Davis, sententiously. “Ain't there any fellows about would give you a name to a bit of stiff, at thirty-one days' date?”
“Pumped them all dry long ago!” said Beecher, laughing. “There's not a man in the garrison would join me to spoil a stamp; and, as to the civilians, I scarcely know one who isn't a creditor already.”
“You are always talking to me of a fellow called Kellett,—why not have a shy at him?”
“Poor Paul!” cried Beecher, with a hearty laugh. “Why, Paul Kellett's ruined—cleaned out—sold in the Encumbered what d'ye-call-'ems, and has n't a cross in the world!”
“I ought to have guessed as much,” growled out Grog, “or he'd not have been on such friendly terms with you.”
“A polite speech that, Grog,” said Beecher, smiling.
“It's true, and that's better,” said Davis. “The only fellows that stick close to a man in his poverty are those a little poorer than himself.”