When Mr. Saxon got out he was going on at the other gentleman about something dreadfully, and I said to myself, “Oh dear, he’s come down in a bad temper! We must look out for squalls.”
The other gentleman said, “Well, Mr. Saxon, it was not my fault; didn’t you tell me you would pack the manuscript yourself?”
“No, I didn’t. Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now. I’m getting used to everything. I’ve come down here on purpose to finish that story, and you’ve left the manuscript behind, and it’s wanted in a hurry. I’m working against time. Don’t say anything. It’s my punishment—it’s my doom. Heaven doesn’t want me to prosper. I’m to be ruined, and you are only the humble instrument sent by Providence to accomplish my ruin.”
“Well, sir, hadn’t I better telegraph?”
“Telegraph! To whom? Who knows which manuscript I want? Besides, it couldn’t get here in time. I wanted to finish that story to-night. Now it’s impossible. If my greatest enemy had employed you to play me a trick, you couldn’t have played me one that would have caused me more inconvenience.”
The Swedish gentleman looked very miserable, and all this time there was me and Harry and the fly-driver standing with the door of the fly open, and Mr. Saxon was going on at the Swedish gentleman, taking no notice of anybody.
So I thought I’d interrupt, and I said, “I hope you’re well, Mr. Saxon?”
He turned on me in a minute, and said, “No, Mary Jane, I am not well. I’m half dead.”
“I’m very sorry, sir. What’s the matter with you?”
“What’s the matter with me!” he said. Then he gave a withering glance at the Swedish gentleman, and said, “Idiots, Mary Jane—that’s the disease I’m suffering from! Idiots!”