Then Mr. Beeson broke out, almost fiercely, fixing
his eyes on what he could see of the impassive face of
his auditor:
'Give it him? Sir, in this matter I have no inten-
tion of troubling anyone for advice. You will par-
don me, I am sure'--here he became singularly
persuasive--'but I have ventured to nail that pig-
tail fast, and have assumed that somewhat onerous
obligation of guarding it. So it is quite impossible to
act on your considerate suggestion.
'Do you play me for a Modoc?'
Nothing could exceed the sudden ferocity with
which he thrust this indignant remonstrance into
the ear of his guest. It was as if he had struck him on
the side of the head with a steel gauntlet. It was a
protest, but it was a challenge. To be mistaken for
a coward--to be played for a Modoc: these two ex-
pressions are one. Sometimes it is a Chinaman.
Do you play me for a Chinaman? is a question
frequently addressed to the ear of the suddenly
dead.
Mr. Beeson's buffet produced no effect, and after
a moment's pause, during which the wind thundered
in the chimney like the sound of clods upon a coffin,
he resumed:
'But, as you say, it is wearing me out. I feel
that the life of the last two years has been a mis-
take--a mistake that corrects itself; you see how.
The grave! No; there is no one to dig it. The ground
is frozen, too. But you are very welcome. You may
say at Bentley's--but that is not important.
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