“Don't you reckon on that,” murmured plain Mr. Jones seriously.
“No, sir, I don't, though you have a wonderful power of the eye. It's a fact.”
“I have a wonderful patience,” remarked Mr. Jones dryly.
A dim smile flitted over the lips of the faithful Ricardo who never raised his head.
“I don't want to try you too much, sir, but this is like no other job we ever turned our minds to.”
“Perhaps not. At any rate let us think so.”
A weariness with the monotony of life was reflected in the tone of this qualified assent. It jarred on the nerves of the sanguine Ricardo.
“Let us think of the way to go to work,” he retorted a little impatiently. “He's a deep one. Just look at the way he treated that chum of his. Did you ever hear of anything so low? And the artfulness of the beast—the dirty, tame artfulness!”
“Don't you start moralizing, Martin,” said Mr. Jones warningly. “As far as I can make out the story that German hotel-keeper told you, it seems to show a certain amount of character;—and independence from common feelings which is not usual. It's very remarkable, if true.”
“Ay, ay! Very remarkable. It's mighty low down, all the same,” muttered, Ricardo obstinately. “I must say I am glad to think he will be paid off for it in a way that'll surprise him!”