“Yes,” said the Englishman: “isn’t evewyone who has no pecuniawy intewest in slavewy?”
“Of course,” replied Peter, “more or less so. But beware of talking anti-slavery to Miss Mellasys. You’ll bring an unhandsome look into those tranquil eyes. She’s here on the proceeds of one of her half-sisters. Success of abolitionism would knock off her summer trips to civilisation, and she knows that her amiable papa wouldn’t hesitate to sell her, as he does the scions of his dusky brood, without too much inquiry as to the purpose.”
“You call this a democratic republic, I believe,” said Granby.
“’Tis the land of the free and the home of the brave!” cried Peter, waving his hat. “Pardon this ebullition of national pride. I’m getting up my enthusiasm for a presidential stumping tour this fall. Well, Saccharissa is very pretty. I’m told they cultivate that startled expression of the eyes at the South by placing the girls, when they’re infants, on the edge of a bayou; the alligators come and snap at them, but the nurse runs them off just in time.”
“Will you allow me to make a note of that custom?” asked Ambient, who had listened open-mouthed.
“Certainly,” assented Peter graciously, “and I can tell you more of the same sort, if you wish,” but the sound of the dinner-gong prevented further recitals.
Tim Budlong appeared at dinner, all beauteous with raiment, but looking desperately roué. He had, too, the peculiarly anxious look of an amateur subscriber, so different from the cautious carelessness of the professional receiver of subscriptions.
Tim was disposed to dodge Mr. Waddy; but Ira had no quarrel with the hopeful youth, who had in the Halifax affair only done as most men do. It is not worth while, as Mr. Waddy knew, to be permanently disgusted with human beings for acting according to their natures; he knew that character is a compound of blood, breeding, and experience. So he gave Tim a glass of claret and said “Pax vobiscum, my lad!” very kindly.
Tim, pleased with the patronage of the distinguished stranger, who, with his two friends, and Chin Chin behind his chair, was an object of gaze at the Millard—Tim, elated by such good society, for twenty minutes resolved to reform. At the twenty-first minute, he caught a wink from Gyas Cutus, and with a knowing crook of the elbow, turned off his glass of what Millard called champagne and became a reprobate again.
After dinner, Peter Skerrett was besieged by speculators for information. “Who are your friends?” was the cry of many a hopeful mother. Peter forgot his previous story and now asserted that they were Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar, the Three Kings of Cologne. Peter was fond of mystification. But the hotel books and the Budlongs gave more authentic accounts. Henceforth patrols of marriageable daughters were about Ira’s path; but we shall regard them no more than did he.