“Not but, if he had it,” said Beecher, following up his own thoughts,—“not but, if he had it, he's just the fellow to do a right good-natured thing.”
“Well, I suppose he's got his name,—they have n't sold that, have they?”
“No, but it's very much like the estate,” said Beecher. “It's far too heavily charged ever to pay off the encumbrances.”
“Who minds that, nowadays? A bad bill is a very useful thing sometimes. It's like a gun warranted to burst, and you can always manage to have it in the right man's hands when it comes the time for the explosion.”
“You are a rum un, Davis,—you are, indeed,” said Beecher, admiringly; for it was in the delivery of such wise maxims that Davis appeared to him truly great.
“Get him down for fifty,—that ain't much,—fifty at three months. My Lord says he 'll stand fifty himself, in that letter I read. It was to help you to a match, to be sure; but that don't matter. There can be no question of marrying now. Let me see how this affair is going to turn. Well, I'll see if I can't do something myself. I've a precious lot of stamped paper there,”—and he pointed to an old secretary,—“if I could hit upon a sharp fellow to work it.”
“You are a trump, Grog!” cried Beecher, delightedly.
“If we had a clear two hundred, we could start to-morrow,” said Grog, laying down his cigar, and staring steadfastly at him.
“Why, would you come, too?” muttered Beecher, who had never so much as imagined the possibility of this companionship on the Continent.
“I expect I would,” said Davis, with a very peculiar grin. “It ain't likely you'd manage an affair like this without advice.”