“Of course,” said Max, smiling.
“There, don’t put on that imbecile smile,” cried Hopper. “There’s only been one decent dish on the table yet, and I’ve got some of it now. You don’t send your horses out to work in their nosebags? so don’t make me work when I’ve got on mine. I’m hard of hearing, but I’m fond of my digestion. Don’t treat your guest worse than your horses.”
“You always did like a joke, Hopper,” said Max.
“Joke!—it’s no joke,” cried Hopper, pointing at a pie before him. “Look at that—there’s a thing to eat! Look at the crust: just like the top of a brown skull, with all the sutures marked, ready to thrust a knife in and open it,—only it’s apple inside instead of brains.”
Mrs Max gave a horrified glance at Violante.
At last the dessert was placed on the table, and in due time the ladies rose, Tom following them shortly, and Fred, with a sneering look at his brother, rising, and saying he should go and have a cigar.
“You don’t smoke, I suppose, old Hopper?”
“Hey? Not smoke? Yes, I do; but I shall have a pipe.” Left alone, the visitor condescended to talk about Richard, and gave Max a full account of his handsomely furnished house; growing so confidential that, when he took his cup of coffee, he drew nearer and nearer, gesticulating as he described the rich Turkey carpets.
“He must be very rich,” said Max at last, as he tapped the mahogany table with his fingers.
“Not saved much, I should say,” replied Hopper; “but he’s making money fast. So are you.”