"He was, indeed."
"Checkynshaw don't know how to be good and kind—Checkynshaw don't. It isn't in him."
"Indeed, he does!" protested Maggie.
"So he does!" chimed in Leo, who was very grateful to Mr. Checkynshaw for buying his merchandise and recommending it to his friends. "I blow for Checkynshaw!"
"Mr. Checkynshaw has been very kind to us, and we feel grateful to him for his goodness," added André, in his mild, silky-toned voice.
"I know Checkynshaw. I've summered him and wintered him; and you have to summer and winter a man like Checkynshaw before you know him. My friend Choate knows him. Me and Choate both know him. Checkynshaw is mean; Checkynshaw has a small soul. You could set up two such souls as Checkynshaw's on the point of a cambric needle, and they could wander about till the end of time without coming within hailing distance of each other."
"Mr. Checkynshaw is not mean," replied Maggie, her pretty face red with excitement and indignation.
"Excuse me, Miss Maggimore, but you don't know him."
"I think I do know him. He gave me the reward of five hundred dollars for returning the papers to him," said Maggie, warmly; and the banker might have rejoiced to be defended by so fair and spirited an advocate.
"Checkynshaw!" ejaculated Mr. Wittleworth, springing out of his chair.