"Must it be, really?" inquired the other, biting his lips—at that moment kissing his hand to a very beautiful girl, who slowly passed him in a coroneted chariot—"must it really be, Joe?" he repeated, turning towards his companion a pale and bitterly chagrined countenance.
"Poz, 'pon my life. Cage clean, however, and not very full—just at present"——
"Would not Wednesday!"—inquired the other, leaning forward towards the former speaker's cab, and whispering with an air of intense earnestness. "The fact is, I've engagements at C——'s on Monday and Tuesday nights with one or two country cousins, and I may be in a condition—eh? you understand?"
His companion shook his head distrustfully.
"Upon my word and honor as a gentleman, it's the fact!" said the other, in a low vehement tone.
"Then—say Wednesday, nine o'clock, a.m. You understand? No mistake, Fitz!" replied his companion, looking him steadily in the face as he spoke.
"None—honor!"—After a pause—"Who is it?"
His companion took a slip of paper out of his pocket, and in a whisper read from it—"Cab, harness, &c., £297, 10s."
"A villain! It's been of only three years' standing," interrupted the other, in an indignant mutter.
"Between ourselves, he is rather a sharp hand. Then, I'm sorry to say there's a Detainer or two I have had a hint of"——