“Well, I suppose he rubs on pretty much the same as ever,” said Beecher, in some confusion.
“Yaas—yaas—he rub on—and he rub off, too, sometimes—ha! ha! ha!” laughed out the old man, with a fiendish cackle. “Ach, der Davis!”
Without knowing in what sense to take the words, Beecher did not exactly like them; and as little was he pleased with that singular recurrence to “der Davis,” and the little sigh that followed. He was growing impatient, besides, to get his money, and again reverted to the question.
“He look well? I hope he have de goot gesundheit—what you call it?”
“To be sure he does; nothing ever ails him. I never heard him complain of as much as a headache.
“Ach, der Davis, der Davis!” said the old man, shaking his head.
Seeing no chance of success by his direct advances, Beecher thought he 'd try a little flank attack by inducing a short conversation, and so he said, “I am on my way to Davis, now, with his daughter, whom he left in my charge.”
“Whose daughter?” asked the Jew.
“Davis's,—a young lady that was educated at Brussels.”
“He have no daughter. Der Davis have no daughter.”