“Oh, I know the whole story; I 've seen so much of this sort of thing. Well, old fellow,” added he, after a pause, “if I 'd been acquainted with you ten or fifteen years ago, I could have saved you from all this ruin.”
O'Shea repressed every tendency to a smile, and nodded again.
“I 'd have said to you, 'Don't be in a hurry, watch the market, and I 'll tell you when to “go in.''”
“Maybe it's not too late yet, so give me a word of friendly advice,” said O'Shea, with a modest humility. “There are few men want it more.”
There was now a pause of several minutes; O'Shea waiting to see how his bait had taken, and Agincourt revolving in his mind whether this was not the precise moment for opening his negotiation. At last he said,—
“I wrote that letter I promised you. I said you were an out-and-outer as to ability, and that they could n't do better than make you a Governor somewhere, though you 'd not be disgusted with something smaller. I 've been looking over the vacancies; there's not much open. Could you be a Mahogany Commissioner at Honduras?”
“Well, so far as having had my legs under that wood for many years with pleasure to myself and satisfaction to my friends, perhaps I might.”
“Do you know what I 'd do if I were you?”
“I have not an idea.”
“I 'd marry,—by Jove, I would!—I 'd marry!”