“And you, Condor,” said Enos Slugby, smiling, as he lighted a fresh cigar, “did you say that you were proud and happy, or happy and proud, to call him your friend?”
“Lord! Lord! what an old hum it is—isn’t it?” said General Belch, cheerfully, as he smoothed his hat with his coat-sleeve, and put it on.
They went down stairs laughing and chatting; and the Honorable Abel Newt, the worthy exemplar of the purest republican virtues—as the resolution stated when it appeared in the next morning’s papers—was left snoring amidst his constituency of empty decanters and drained glasses.
CHAPTER LXXVII. — FACE TO FACE.
“Signore Pittore! what brings a bird into the barn-yard?” said Lawrence Newt, as Arthur Merlin entered his office.
“The hope of some crumb of comfort.”
“Do you dip from your empyrean to the cold earth—from the studio to a counting-room—to find comfort?” asked Lawrence Newt, cheerfully.
Arthur Merlin looked only half sympathetic with his friend’s gayety. There was a wan air on his face, a piteous look in his eyes, which touched Lawrence.