"No," said Ashwoode.
"Well, see what the nerves is," cried Blarden, "by ——, I'd have bet ten to one I heard a voice in the wall the minute I hit that locker door—this —— weather don't agree with me."
This sentence he wound up by administering a second knock where he had given the first; and Larry, with set teeth and a grin, which in a horse-collar would have won whole pyramids of gingerbread, nevertheless bore it this time with the silent stoicism of a tortured Indian.
"The nerves is a —— quare piece of business," observed Mr. Blarden—a philosophical remark in which Larry heartily concurred—"but get the cards, will you—what the —— is all the delay about?"
In obedience to Ashwoode's summons, Mistress Betsy Carey entered the room.
"Carey," said he, "open that press and take out two or three packs of cards."
"I can't open the locker," replied she, readily, "for the young mistress put the key astray, sir—I'll run and look for it, if you please, sir."
"God bless you," murmured Larry, with fervent gratitude.
"Hand me that bunch of keys from under your apron," said Blarden, "ten to one we'll find some one among them that'll open it."
"There's no use in trying, sir," replied the girl, very much alarmed, "it's a pitiklar soart of a lock, and has a pitiklar key—you'll ruinate it, sir, if you go for to think to open it with a key that don't fit it, so you will—I'll run and look for it if you please, sir."