Several men, some having the appearance of
respectable merchants, some dressed in a coarse, red-mixed homespun,
others smoking cigars very leisurely, are seated at a table, upon
which are several bottles and tumblers. They drank every few
minutes, touched glasses, uttered the vilest imprecations.
Conspicuous among them is Marco Graspum: it is enough that we have
before introduced him to the reader at Marston's mansion. His dark
peering eyes glisten as he sits holding a glass of liquor in one
hand, and runs his fingers through his bristly hair with the other.
"The depths of trade are beyond some men," he says, striking his
hand on the table; then, catching up a paper, tears it into pieces.
"Only follow my directions; and there can be no missing your man,"
he continued, addressing one who sat opposite to him; and who up to
that time had been puffing his cigar with great unconcern. His whole
energies seemed roused to action at the word. After keeping his eyes
fixed upon Graspum for more than a minute, he replied, at the same
time replenishing his cigar with a fresh one--
"Yee'h sees, Marco,--you'r just got to take that ar' say back, or
stand an all-fired chaffing. You don't scar' this 'un, on a point a'
business. If I hain't larned to put in the big pins, no fellow has.
When ye wants to 'sap' a tall 'un, like Marston, ye stands shy until
ye thinks he's right for pulling, and then ye'll make a muffin on
him, quicker. But, ye likes to have yer own way in gettin' round
things, so that a fellow can't stick a pinte to make a hundred or
two unless he weaves his way clean through the law-unless he
understands Mr.
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