Pisgah and the _blanchisseuse_ were embracing in a spirited
way, and Simp was holding back Freckle, who--persuaded that Hugenot's
remarks were in some way derogatory to himself--wished to toss down his
gauntlet.
"The next toast, gentlemen of the Colony," said Andy Plade, "is to be
dispatched immediately by the waiter, whom you see upon my right hand,
to the office of the telegraph; thence to Mr. Risque at Wisbaden:
"'The Southern exiles; doubtless the most immethodical men alive; but
the results prove they have the best system: no _Risque_, no winnings.'
"You will see, gentlemen," continued Mr. Plade, when the enthusiasm had
subsided, "that I place the toast in this envelope. It will go in two
minutes to Mr. Auburn Risque!"
The waiter started for the door; it was dashed open in his face, and
splattered, dirty, and travel-worn, Auburn Risque himself stood like an
apparition on the threshold.
"Perdition!" thundered Plade, staggered and pale-faced; "you were not to
break the bank till to-morrow."
The Colony, sober or inebriate, clustered about the door, and held to
each other that they might hear the explanation aright.
Auburn Risque straightened himself and glared upon all the besiegers,
till his pock-marked face grew white as leprosy, and every spot in his
secretive eye faded out in the glitter of his defiance.
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