A noisy, last shot, to inaugurate
the days of silence.
Throughout this interview, my conscience was a good deal exercised;
and I was moved to throw myself on my knees and own the intended
treachery. But then I had Hanson to consider. I was in much the
same position as Old Rowley, that royal humourist, whom "the rogue
had taken into his confidence." And again, here was Ronalds on the
spot. He must know the day of the month as well as Hanson and I.
If a broad hint were necessary, he had the broadest in the world.
For a large board had been nailed by the crown prince on the very
front of our house, between the door and window, painted in
cinnabar--the pigment of the country--with doggrel rhymes and
contumelious pictures, and announcing, in terms unnecessarily
figurative, that the trick was already played, the claim already
jumped, and Master Sam the legitimate successor of Mr. Ronalds.
But no, nothing could save that man; quem deus vult perdere, prius
dementat. As he came so he went, and left his rights depending.
Late at night, by Silverado reckoning, and after we were all abed,
Mrs. Hanson returned to give us the newest of her news. It was
like a scene in a ship's steerage: all of us abed in our different
tiers, the single candle struggling with the darkness, and this
plump, handsome woman, seated on an upturned valise beside the
bunks, talking and showing her fine teeth, and laughing till the
rafters rang.
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