He will risk so small a sum for a thing so plausible and
profitable."
"I don't know what you have been saying," muttered Simp. "I cannot
comprehend a scheme so intricate; you bewilder me! What is a
consignment? How am I, bigad! to make that clear in a letter? Perhaps my
speech in the case of Rutledge _vs._ Pinckney might come in well at this
juncture."
"Write!" cried Plade, contemptuously; "write at my dictation."
That night the letter was mailed; Mr. Simp was summoned to his banker's
the following noon, and at dusk he met Andy Plade in the Place Vendome,
and paid over a thousand francs with a sigh.
On the third night succeeding, Messrs. Plade and Hugenot were smoking
their cigars at Nice, and Mr. Simp, without the least idea of what he
meant to do, was drinking cocktails on the Atlantic Ocean.
* * * * *
"Francine," said Pisgah, with a woful glance at the dregs of absinthe in
the tumbler, "give me a half franc, my dear; I am poorly to-day."
"Monsieur Pisgah," answered Madame Francine, "give me nine hundred and
sixty-five francs, seventy-five centimes--that is your bill with me--and
I am poorly also."
"My love," said Pisgah, rubbing his grizzled beard against the madame's
fat cheek, "you are not hard-hearted.
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