"The first dark night."
"You'll consult the clerk of the we-weather as to when that is c-coming, eh?"
"I suppose so," said Clinton, laughing. "Meanwhile, come down to my house the last of the week, say Friday night, and I'll have all things in cap-a-pie order for you."
"How do I know where to find you, my more than brother," said Arthur, clasping Clinton's hand closely.
"Quirk knows the way. You'll come?"
"Depend upon it."
"Good! that's settled; now for a bumper on it."
"Well, I don't know, Clinton; I—I—declare I'm afr-afraid I'll be (hic) drunk if I drink any more."
"Nonsense! down with it; let's finish the last bottle."