“And no man is, sir, with a woman!” said the scribe of the sermon.
“Ain't they, Chaplain?” And Harry growled out more naughty words expressive of inward disquiet.
“By the way, have you heard anything of your lost property?” asked the chaplain, presently looking up from his pages.
Harry said “No!” with another word, which I would not print for the world.
“I begin to suspect, sir, that there was more money than you like to own in that book. I wish I could find some.”
“There were notes in it,” said Harry, very gloomily, “and—and papers that I am very sorry to lose. What the deuce has come of it? I had it when we dined together.”
“I saw you put it in your pocket,” cried the chaplain. “I saw you take it out and pay at the toy-shop a bill for a gold thimble and workbox for one of your young ladies. Of course you have asked there, sir?”
“Of course I have,” says Mr. Warrington, plunged in melancholy.
“Gumbo put you to bed—at least, if I remember right. I was so cut myself that I scarce remember anything. Can you trust those black fellows, sir?”
“I can trust him with my head. With my head?” groaned out Mr. Warrington, bitterly., “I can't trust myself with it.”