“It is to Captain Fyffe,” the count answered, “that I owe my liberty.”
“Then you owe him a lot,” retorted Mr. Quorn. “There's nothing sweeter on the face of the earth, and I presoom, sir, that you know it. I am a foe to slavery, gentlemen, everywhere and always. In the sacred cause of freedom I have been tarred and feathered and rode upon a rail. In comparison with twenty years in Austrian hands that ain't a lot, but it was more than I bargained for, and as much as I wanted. In the sacred cause of freedom, gentlemen, I'm willing to sacrifice even a pecuniary consideration. I could do a trade with Austria that would increase my profits by fifty per cent. But I'm all for freedom, and you get first offer.”
“What is your news from the Continent, Mr. Quorn?” inquired the count.
Mr. Quorn looked about him for a convenient spot, selected the fireplace, spat again, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and winked with a slow deliberation.
“What's yourn?” he asked. The count smiled and shook his head. “Wal,” said Mr. Quorn, “I'll tell you what I'll do with you. I'll letter it with you. L.”
“O,” said the count, still smiling.
“U,” said Mr. Quorn.
“I,” said the count.
“It appears to me,” said Mr. Quorn, “we're on the same trail. The exalted individual we've got in mind, count, has done something. What's he done now?” He rolled his big head between his fat shoulders as he put the question, and chewed away at the great plug of tobacco in his cheek as if he were paid to do it, and as if he were paid by piecework.
“Yes,” said the count, “he has done something, but that is a little vague.”