“That 'ere woman riles me considerable,” said Quackinboss; “she doesn't seem to mind, noways, what has happened, and talks of goin' to a new clearin' quite uncon-sarned like. I ain't afraid of many things, but I 'm darned extensive if I 'd not be afeard of her! What are you a-por-ing over there?”
“It is the handwriting. I am certain I have seen it before; but where, how, and when, I cannot bring to mind.”
“How could you, sir? Don't all your womankind write that sort of up-and-down bristly hand, more like a prickly-pear fence than a Christian's writin'? It's all of a piece with your Old-World civilization, which tries to make people alike, as the eggs in a basket; but they ain't like, for all that. No, sir, nor will any fixin' make 'em so!”
“I have certainly seen it before,” muttered Layton to himself.
“I 'm main curious to know how your father found out the 'pyson,'—ain't it all there?”
“Oh, it was a long and very intricate chemical investigation.”
“Did he bile him?”
“Boil him? No,” said he, with difficulty restraining a laugh;' 'certainly not.”
“Well, they tell me, sir, there ain't no other sure way to discover it. They always bile 'em in France!”
“I am so puzzled by this hand,” muttered Alfred, half aloud.