“Well, Sis, perhaps I will.  But, mind, before I do, Mam shall promise, sartin sure, to let you go by half-past twelve o’clock, and not a minit later.”

“Well, I’ll see she does; you harness Nell, and get the buggy.  The man says he’s sorry he spoke to you so.  If he’s carried to Captain Grant’s and back, I’ll answer for it’s being the best for all of us.”

She was off to the house like a bird, and the rest of her diplomacy was too simple and straightforward to need special record.

As the buggy was at the door before the table presented the savory temptation of fried eels, Chip declined breakfast at present, but decidedly promised to take it on his return.  He dropped in on Captain Grant, as he was careful to tell that gentleman, having had business in Waltham that morning, and thinking he might perhaps save him a journey to town.  The ship-owner had just finished the news of the morning papers, for which he had sent a messenger express to the post-office, and said, after the cordial salutation which a rough sort of man always gives in his own house,—­

“Well, Mr. Dartmouth, I see the market is as close-reefed as ever.  Maybe you think I will sell at five and three-fourths to-day, but I’ve concluded to make a floating warehouse of the ‘Orion’ for the winter, rather than do that.”

“I don’t blame you for that, my friend; but in the present state of advices, six at two months is the highest mill that will do.  If you will close the ‘Orion’s’ cargo at that, I am your man.”

“What I’ve said, I’ll do, Sir, of course,” said the tough old salt; “and since you’ve taken the trouble to come out here and save my lame toes, let’s nail the bargain with a bottle of my old Madeira,—­some of the ripest this side of the herring-pond, I’ll be bound.”

“Not a drop, I thank you; for, besides being a teetotaller, Captain, I’m behind time to-day, and must bid you good-morning.”

“Well, Sir, I’m much obliged to you; the bill of sale shall be at your counting-room directly; the clerk will receive the notes and deliver the cotton.  Good-morning, Sir,—­good-morning!”

In truth, Chip had not the slightest objection to wine, as wine, even had it not been the ripest on this continent; but, like any other mitigated villain, he did not quite relish taking wine with the man he was basely cheating.  He would much rather partake of Ma’am Birch’s fried eels and coffee, especially if Laura Birch should, peradventure, be the Hebe of such an ambrosial entertainment.  She was not, however,—­and the disappointment considerably overclouded the commercial victory of the morning.  Madam Birch herself did the honors of whatever sort, while Chip played a fantasia solo at the table d’hote.  The good lady enlarged volubly on her destitution of help, and how, if she had any such as we get now-a-days, they were more plague than profit,—­how Laura was getting ready to go with Frank to the cattle-show, and she herself was likely to be the only living mortal in the house for the rest of the day.