June 2, 18--.
To VISCOUNT DEVENHAM,
MY DEAR DICK,--I did not think to be asking favors
of you so soon, but--(here a blot).
"Confound it!" exclaimed Barnabas, and taking out his penknife he
began to mend the spluttering quill. But, in the midst of this
operation, chancing to glance out of the window, he espied a
long-legged gentleman with a remarkably fierce pair of whiskers; he
wore a coat of ultra-fashionable cut, and stood with his booted legs
wide apart, staring up at the inn from under a curly-brimmed hat.
But the hat had evidently seen better days, the coat was frayed at
seam and elbow, and the boots lacked polish; yet these small
blemishes were more than offset by his general dashing, knowing air,
and the untamable ferocity of his whiskers. As Barnabas watched him,
he drew a letter from the interior of his shabby coat, unfolded it
with a prodigious flourish, and began to con it over. Now, all at
once, Barnabas dropped knife and pen, thrust a hand into his own
breast and took thence a letter also, at sight of which he
straightway forgot the bewhiskered gentleman; for what he read was
this:--
Dearest and Best of Sisters,--Never, in all this
world was there such an unfortunate, luckless dog as I--were
it not for your unfailing love I should have
made an end of it all, before now.
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