“Morrow, Abel,” said Dalton, as he threw himself into a chair, and, removing his hat, began to wipe his forehead with his handkerchief. “This is a murdering hot day. It's not ten yet, and the sun's roasting!”
“Fine weather for de harvest, Herr von Dalton, but a leetle rain do no harm.”
“Faix! I think not; neither to man nor beast.”
Abel grinned at the brawny throat and massive proportions that seemed so unequal to sustain the heat, but said nothing.
“How's the exchange, Abel?” said Peter; “how's the exchange?”
Now, in justice to our worthy friend Dalton, we must own that he put this question without having the very remotest idea of its meaning. An inscription from the tomb of the Pharaohs would have been to the full as intelligible to him as an abstract from the “City Article.” He asked it as certain “charming women” inquire about the compass on board ship,—something, in fact, suitable to the time and place, and proper to be done on like occasions.
“De exchange is very uncertain; de market is up and down,” said Abel, dryly.
“That's bad,” said Dalton, gravely,——“that's very bad!”
“De Mongolian loan is de reason,” rejoined Abel.
Dalton gave a grunt, that might mean assent or displeasure with that view of the case, but did not trust himself with more.