"Dear me, dear me! but the night is mighty chill, Mr. Blarden," observed Chancey, filling a glass of wine to the brim, and sipping it uninvited. "News," he continued, letting himself drop into a chair—"news; well, there's not much stirring worth telling you."
"Come, what is it? You're not come here for nothing, old fox," rejoined Blarden, "I know by the —— twinkle in the corner of your eye."
"Well, he has been with me, just now," drawled Chancey.
"Ashwoode?"
"Yes."
"Well! what does he want—what does he want, eh?" asked Blarden, with intense excitement.
"He says he'll want time for the notes," replied Chancey.
"God be thanked!" ejaculated Blarden, and followed this ejaculation with a ferocious burst of laughter. "We'll have him, Chancey, boy, if only we know how to play him—by ——, we'll have him, as sure as there's heat in hell."
"Well, maybe we will," rejoined Chancey.
"Does he say he can't pay them on the day?" asked Blarden, exultingly.