His hand flew across the paper. "If we take him, I don't mind giving you a share—say a fourth—provided you lend a helping hand. But I can tell you who'll have the pleasure of hanging your father's son; and that's a person not a hundred miles distant from you at this moment—ha! ha!" As he said this, the door was opened, and Charcam entered, accompanied by a dwarfish, shabby-looking man, in a brown serge frock, with coarse Jewish features, and a long red beard. I'll speak to McClintock to-night and see if he won't take us for a junket on The Tigress. I had two slices. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. Young and old were dressed in their gayest apparel; and it was evident from the smiles that lighted up every countenance, from the roguish looks of the younger swains, and the demure expression of several pretty rustic maidens, that a ceremony, which never fails to interest all classes,—a wedding,—was about to take place. A short flight of steps brought him to a dark passage, into which he plunged.
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