Compared with
the dens I had found about my lodgings in the city, the saloons were
orderly; but nevertheless they offended my New England sense of the
fitness of things. In the city I had scarcely known that there was a
Sunday. But here I was reminded, and felt that something was amiss.
In the residence streets I was better pleased. Man had done little, but
nature was prodigal to make up for his omissions. The buildings were
poor and flimsy, but in the middle of December the flowers bloomed,
vines were green, bushes sent forth their leaves, and the beauty of the
scene even under the leaden skies and rising gale made it a delight to
the eye.
"Not much of a place," said Fitzhugh, looking disdainfully at the
buildings. "Hello! Here's Dick Thatcher. How are you, Dick? It's a year
of Sundays that I haven't seen you. This is--er--a friend of mine,
Thatcher,--you needn't mention that you've seen us." And Fitzhugh
stumbled painfully over the recollection that we were incognito, and
became silent in confusion.
"We needn't be strangers to Mr. Thatcher," I laughed. "My name is
Wilton. Of course you won't mention our business."
"Oh, no, Mr. Wilton," said Thatcher, impressed, and shifting the quid
of tobacco in his lantern jaws. "Of course not."
"And you needn't say anything of our being here at all," I continued.
"It might spoil the trade."
"Mum's the word," said Thatcher. "I'll not let a soul know till you say
'Let 'er go.' O Lord! I hope the trade goes through.
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