“I’ve a name of my own,” he said to himself, as he returned to his hotel from the last of these, “and I’ve got rid forever of that horrible old time, but what shall I do with my ‘New Time’? I must settle that before my funds run out. They’d last longer in the country.”
No doubt of that, but what was he to do in the country?
There had been work enough cut out for him in town, of a kind that he knew how to go about, and very remarkable had been the discussion thereof by the bedside of “Major Montague,” some three or four hours after Barnaby’s escapade.
“Might set the police after him, on account of that money,” said a tall, thin, foreign-looking man, in a tone of deep dejection.
“The police, Prosper?” exclaimed the major. “I guess not. The less you say to them the better. They understand your kind of French.”
“He’d make a better hand than any of us, in time,” groaned Prosper.
“He’s cut his stick, though, as far as we are concerned,” added a third, a dapper little fellow, who stood by Prosper’s chair. “I’m glad he’s gone before he learned too much.”
“He knows enough now,” said the major, “but I don’t believe he’ll do us any harm. He isn’t any common kind of boy, and we never could have kept him in hand. I tell you, he’ll be bossing a crowd of his own before a great while.”
“But I mean to have the use of him for a while first,” said Prosper, “if I can only lay my hands on him!”
“Better not try,” said the major.