“Thank you, ma’am. If I keep upright, ma’am, I feel my head will split asunder. I can’t speak different nor feel other.”
“Then don’t be upright.”
“No, ma’am. Them that feels other, let them declare it!” and Mrs. Fancy retired, holding both hands to her temples, and uttering very distinctly sundry stifled moans.
Mrs. Merillia motioned the Prophet to a chair, and, after lying quite still for about five minutes with her eyes tightly shut, said in a weak tone of voice,—
“How many more telegrams do you expect, Hennessey? You have had twenty-seven within the last three hours. Can you give me a rough general idea of the average number you anticipate will probably arrive every hour from now till the offices close?”
“Grannie, grannie, forgive me! I assure you—”
“Don’t be afraid to tell me, Hennessey. It is much better to know the worst, and fact it bravely. Will the present average be merely sustained, or do you expect the quantity to increase towards night? because if so—”
“Grannie, there will be no more. I swear to you solemnly that I will not have another telegram to-day. I will not upon my sacred honour. Nothing—not wild horses even—shall induce me.”
“Horses! Then were they racing tips, Hennessey? Yes, give me the eau de Cologne and fan me gently. Were they racing tips?”
“Oh, grannie, how could you suppose—”