“All right!”
The Guest doffed his hat and began to move on again; but Charley, seized with a sudden remnant of suspicion, stopped him with a motion of his hand. “Remember,” said he, going close up to him, and speaking in a low but earnest tone,—“remember, you have two good friends yonder.” And, with a toss of his upturned thumb, he pointed, over his shoulder, towards the house, which lay behind them; and young Frobisher, feeling that he had said much, cast his eyes upon the ground, bashful as a girl.
“I believe you,” said the guest; “and,” he added with earnestness, “the belief is much to me—much,—see you at dinner.”
Charley, returning, found Mr. Whacker standing on the lawn, awaiting, with some anxiety, his report.
“It’s all right, I think. Look at him! See how he is booming along the bank! But, Uncle Tom, how on earth did you and Mr. Smith manage to get up those theatricals?!”
“Hang me if I know! We were talking, as quietly as possible, about some trivial matter or other,—entirely trivial, I assure you,—and, all of a sudden, up he leaped in the air as though he had been shot. Let me see, what were we talking about?” And Mr. Whacker rested his forehead upon his hand. “Let—me—see. No, I can’t for the life of me remember. The ‘theatricals,’ as you call them, must have driven everything out of my head; but they were nothings that we were saying, I assure you.”
“You remember that, when I left the room, you were teasing me about not falling in love with Lucy Poythress?”
“Yes, yes, yes; now I have it! Well, after you went out, I told him what friends you and Mrs. Poythress were, and how you paid her a weekly visit, rain or shine,—ah, yes, and how once you were upset, when you would cross the river in spite of my remonstrances, and so on and so on.”
“That was all?”
“Every word. Why, you were not out of the room two minutes!”