“Henry Warrington, Esq.”
“Did Lord March say anything?” asked Mr. Warrington looking very pale.
“He say it was the coolest thing he ever knew. So did Mr. Morris. He showed him your letter, Master Harry. Yes, Mr. Morris say, 'Dam his imperence!'” added Gumbo.
Harry burst into such a yell of laughter that his landlord thought he had good news, and ran in in alarm lest he was about to lose his tenant. But by this time poor Harry's laughter was over, and he was flung down in his chair gazing dismally in the fire.
“I—I should like to smoke a pipe of Virginia” he groaned.
Gumbo burst into tears: he flung himself at Harry's knees. He kissed his knees and his hands. “Oh, master, my dear master, what will they say at home?” he sobbed out.
The jailor was touched at the sight of the black's grief and fidelity, and at Harry's pale face as he sank back in his chair quite overcome and beaten by his calamity.
“Your honour ain't eat anything these two days,” the man said, in a voice of rough pity. “Pluck up a little, sir. You aren't the first gentleman who has been in and out of grief before this. Let me go down and get you a glass of punch and a little supper.”
“My good friend,” said Harry, a sickly smile playing over his white face, “you pay ready money for everything in this house, don't you? I must tell you that I haven't a shilling left to buy a dish of meat. All the money I have I want for letter-paper.”
“Oh, master, my master!” roared out Gumbo. “Look here, my dear Master Harry! Here's plenty of money—here's twenty-three five-guineas. Here's gold moidore from Virginia—here—no, not that—that's keepsakes the girls gave me. Take everything—everything. I go sell myself to-morrow morning; but here's plenty for to-night, master!”