“My dear Bella, my head is racking; would you just wet that handkerchief and lay it on my forehead?”
“My poor sweet Alice! and I so cruel, with all my stupid stories; but I thought you 'd like to hear about Tony.”
“Tony!—what of Tony?” asked she, raising herself on one elbow and looking up.
“Well, dearest, it was while in search after Tony that M'Grader got imprisoned. They were sworn friends, it seems. You know, dear, Tony was never very particular in his choice of friends.”
“But what of him,—where is he?”
“I'll tell you everything, if you'll only have a little patience. Tony, who was living with M'Grader in Leghorn,—a partner, I think, in some odious traffic,—cast-off clothes, I believe,—grew tired of it, or got into debt, or did something that brought him into trouble, and he ran away and joined that mad creature Garibaldi.”
“Well, go on.”
“Well, he had not been gone more than ten days or so, when a lawyer came out from England to say that his uncle, Sir Somebody Butler, had died and left him all he had,—a fine estate, and I don't know how much money. When Mr. M'Grader was quite satisfied that all this was true,—and, like a canny Scotchman, he examined it thoroughly,—he set off himself to find Tony and tell him his good news; for, as he said, it would have been a terrible thing to let him go risk his life for nothing, now that he had a splendid fortune and large estate. Indeed, you should have heard Mr. M'Gruder himself on this theme. It was about the strangest medley of romance and worldliness I ever listened to. After all, he was a stanch friend, and he braved no common dangers in his pursuit. He had scarcely landed, however, in Sicily, when he was arrested and thrown into prison.”
“And never met Tony?”
“Never,—of course not; how could he? He did not even dare to speak of one who served under Garibaldi till he met Skeffy.”