If Fritz had been a genuine American, he would have laughed, even under the given circumstances, at the idea of the elegant Frank Randolph saddled with the pastor’s antiquated carpet-bag, with its faded, once gaudy colors, and oilcloth-covered handles; but, as it was, he only said, still coolly,—
“Well, don’t give it away, Denny; it’s private business she’s gone on. I did not know young Randolph was going on this train, though. I say, if I take the six-o’clock, I won’t be much behind her, will I?”
“Gets in three hours later,” said Denny, “connects with the western express at the junction; but I guess it’s the best ye’ll do now. Phy didn’t ye make the five-o’clock?”
“Overslept myself,” said Fritz. “I say, will you take a note from me to ‘Prices’?”
To which Denis consenting, he wrote on a blank leaf of the huge pocketbook in which he always carried the “pass” Mr. Randolph had procured for him,—
“Dear Mr. Clare,—I’m off for New York. Gretchen has gone on the 5 A.M. You promised to help me, so make it all right with the Emperor and Miss Sally, and don’t let the pastor make a row. I’ll bring her back all right in a day or two. Blame it all on me.
“Truly yrs,
“Fritz R.”
“P. S. I don’t want her talked about: my wife, you know.”