“That there is!” said I. “And certainly the world owes her a better—”
“She's a fine-looker,” interrupted Mr. McLean, paying me no further attention. Here the decrepit, straw-hatted proprietor of the Hotel Brunswick stuck his beard out of the door and uttered “Supper!” with a shrill croak, at which the girl rose.
“Come!” said Lin, “let's hurry!”
But I hooked my fingers in his belt, and in spite of his plaintive oaths at my losing him the best seat at the table, told him in three words the sister's devoted journey.
“Nate Buckner!” he exclaimed. “Him with a decent sister!”
“It's the other way round,” said I. “Her with him for a brother!”
“He goes to the penitentiary this week,” said Lin. “He had no more cash to stake his lawyer with, and the lawyer lost interest in him. So his sister could have waited for her convict away back at Joliet, and saved time and money. How did she act when yu' told her?”
“I've not told her.”
“Not? Too kind o' not your business? Well, well! You'd ought to know better 'n me. Only it don't seem right to let her—no, sir; it's not right, either. Put it her brother was dead (and Miss. Fligg's husband would like dearly to make him dead), you'd not let her come slap up against the news unwarned. You would tell her he was sick, and start her gently.”
“Death's different,” said I.