"Perhaps you have the lady already selected."
"I have."
"Who is she?" asked John Mills. "Come, now, Peabody, don't be bashful."
"It is the daughter of a Boston merchant."
"Does the lady love you?"
"We understand each other," answered Peabody, loftily. "She would marry me, poor as I am, but for her purse-proud, mercenary sire. It will be a happy day when, with my pockets full of gold, I enter his presence and claim his daughter's hand."
"I wish you success, Mr. Peabody," said Tom. "I hope you have no rivals."
"Yes, there is one."
"Are you not afraid of him?"
"Oh, no; he is a fellow of no style," said Peabody, drawing up his slender form, and looking as stylish as a very dirty shirt, muddy boots, and a soiled suit would allow.