“If I could on’y see Brudder Baby in my affliction,” sobbed Tugmutton, “’pears to me, it would be a reviver. But I can’t, an’ I’m wus off than a bob-tail horse in fly-time.”
“Cheer up, Charles,” said Harrington, “you shall see Brother Baby soon. Don’t cry.”
“Yes, don’t cry, whatever you do,” said Wentworth, “for crying’s bad for the liver. Here’s something to remember me by,” and he gave him a half dollar.
Tugmutton, with a feeling that his liver was in immediate peril, and touched by Wentworth’s munificence, took the money with a duck of his head, and immediately knuckled away his tears with his big paws.
“The young devil,” muttered Wentworth, walking back to his chair. “Ought to have a sound flogging for his mischief, instead of a half dollar; but that’s Harrington all over, and he just makes a fool of me.”
“What are you saying to yourself, Richard?” asked Harrington, with a wan smile.
“Nothing, nothing,” said Wentworth, hurriedly. “But now what’s to be done with Roux?”
“I don’t know,” sadly responded Harrington; “when he hears of his brother’s capture, I fear it will kill him or drive him crazy.”
“Oh, by Jupiter! but he musn’t hear of it,” replied Wentworth—“at least not yet a while, till we see if this mischief can’t be remedied someway. We may get hold of Antony again, you know, for he’s not out of Boston yet. Meanwhile, you must go up and tell Roux that while he was asleep you sent Antony off to Worcester.”
“No, Richard,” returned Harrington, “I can’t tell a lie. If I could, how could I bear to go up, and look into that poor man’s face, and say that? I can’t do it.”