“Here's another despatch,” cried Davis, as the waiter presented another packet like the former one. “We 're like Secretaries of State to-day,” added he, laughing, as he tore open the envelope. This time, however, he did not read the contents aloud, but sat slowly pondering over the lines to himself.
“It's not Spicer again?” asked Beecher.
“No,” was the brief reply.
“Nor that other fellow,—that German with the odd name?”
“No.”
“Nothing about Mumps,—Klepper, I mean,—nothing about him?”
“Nothing; it don't concern him at all. It's not about anything you ever heard of before,” said Davis, as he threw a log of wood on the fire, and kicked it with his foot. “I 'll have to go to Brussels to-night. I 'll have to leave this by the four o'clock train,” said he, looking at his watch. “The horse is n't fit to move for twenty-four hours, so you 'll remain here; he must n't be left without one of us, you know.”
“Of course not. But is there anything so very urgent—”
“I suppose a man is best judge of his own affairs,” said Davis, rudely.
Beecher made no reply, and a long and awkward silence ensued.