"I don't care if it costs a hundred! Give me an order for her
release!" M'Carstrow begins to understand Mr. Sheriff's composition,
and putting his hand into his pocket, draws forth a dwenty-dollar
gold piece, throws it upon the table. The effect is electric: it
smooths down the surface of Mr. Sheriff's nature,--brings out the
disposition to accommodate. The Sheriff's politeness now taxes
M'Carstrow's power to reciprocate.
"Now, ye see, my friend," says Mr. Sheriff, in a quaint tone,
"there's three fi fas on that critter. Hold a minute!" He must needs
take a better glance; he runs his fingers over the page again,
mutters to himself, and then breaks out into a half-musical,
half-undefinable humming. "It's a snarled-up affair, the whole on't.
T'll take a plaguy cunnin' lawyer to take the shine out." The
sheriff pushes the piece of coin nearer the inkstand, into the
centre of the table. "I feel all over like accommodatin' ye," he
deigns to say; "but then t'll be so pestky crooked gettin' the thing
straight." He hesitates before the wonderful difficulty,--he can't
see his way straight through it. "Three fi fas! I believe I'm
correct; there's one principal one, however."
"I pledge my honour for her return in the morning; and she shall be
all shined up with a new dress. Her presence is imperatively
necessary to-night," M'Carstrow remarks, becoming impatient.
"Two fi fas!-well, the first look looked like three. But, the
principal one out of the way,--no matter.
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