"Pity about the pig," said Jim. "Mabby Stackridge'll be in bime-by. Any thing else I can do for ye?"
Carl stepped up to the barber, and said in a hoarse whisper, loud enough to be heard by every body,—
"A mug of peer, if you pleashe."
"I got some that'll make a Dutchman's head hum!" said Jim, leading the way into the little grog room.
"That's Villars's Dutch boy," said one of the smokers in the barber-shop. "Beats all nater, how these Dutch will swill down any thing in the shape of beer!"
This elegant observation may have had a grain of truth in it, as we who have Teutonic friends may have reason to know. However, the man had mistaken the boy this time.
"It is not the peer I vants, it is Mr. Stackridge," whispered Carl, when alone with the proprietor.
Jim regarded him doubtfully a moment, then said, "I reckon I shall have to open a cask in the suller. You jest tend bar for me while I am gone."
He descended the stairs, closing the door after him. Carl, who thought of the schoolmaster in the hands of the mob, felt his heart swell and burn with anxiety at each moment's delay. Jim did not keep him long waiting.
"This way, Carl, if you want some of the right sort," said the negro from the stairs.