"He's gone!"
Emerson, absorbed in a book, made no answer. After his encounter with the householder he had said little, and upon finding this coverless, brown-stained volume—a tattered copy of Don Quixote—he had relapsed into utter silence.
"I say, he's gone!" reiterated the man at the window.
Still no reply was forthcoming, and, seating himself near the stove, Fraser spread his hands before him in the shape of a book, and began whimsically, in a dry monotone, as if reading to himself:
"At which startling news, Mr. Emerson, with his customary vivacity, smiled engagingly, and answered back:
"'Why do you reckon he has departed, Mr. Fraser?"
"'Because he's lost his voice cussing us,' I replied, graciously.
"'Oh no!' exclaimed the genial Mr. Emerson, more for the sake of conversation than argument; 'he has got cold feet!' Evidently unwilling to let the conversation lag, the garrulous Mr. Emerson continued, 'It's a dark night without, and I fear some mischief is afoot.'
"'Yes; but what of yonder beautchous gel?' said I, at which he burst into wild laughter."
Emerson laid down his book.