nin' scamps the fust time. Didn't
you know, Square, that Fairbanks was gray as a wharf rat, when he let
his hair alone?" said Troffater.

"No, I did not. _He_ was not gray; his hair was a glossy black," said
Fabens.

"Ha! ha! ha! you was _greener 'n_ cowslops, or you'd a seen that was
all dye-stuff!" said Troffater. "Why, I seen the gray roots glisten
for half an inch, the fust time I seen 'im. But didn't you know 'im,
Square? He come from the Hudson."

"I never knew him till he came here," said Fabens.

"But, you've got a clean conscience," said Troffater. "If I had that,
I wouldn't lay wake o' nights, nor grow hatchet-faced a great 'eal. I
see your cheeks don't fall in, and nobuddy would spose by your looks
that you had a _great_ grist o' trouble. Wish I could look as
cheerful, and had a bit o' your pleasant peace o' mind."

"But you have forgotten one of my questions; I asked if you knew any
ill of George Ludlow," said Fabens.

"All I know, I can tell perty quick," said Troffater, and cooked his
quid, and spit through his teeth. "What do you know, Tilly?" asked
Fabens.

"I know an awful cuss hangs over the feller," said Troffater.

"How you talk! Curse! what do you mean?" asked Fabens, with emotion,
and a searching glance of his large and loving eye: "George Ludlow
under a _curse_?"

"Yis, under a cuss, an' may it please your honor," said Troffater.

"Who pronounced it?" asked Fabens.

"Scriptur!" said Troffater, drawing down his monkey brows over his
little, black-and-blue eyes, and looking wise as a magistrate.
"Scriptur pernounced the cuss."

"The Scripture!" exclaimed Fabens. "The Scripture pronounced a curse!
What do you mean? What does the Scripture say to condemn George
Ludlow?"

"A good 'eal, I guess," said Troffater. "The Scripture says--'_Woe_
unto him that all men speak well of;' and George Ludlow is the man!"

"O, you will be Tilly Troffater, as long as you live!" said Fabens.
"Why can you not be serious once in a while? You are getting to be an
old man, and such levity shocks one's reverence for your gray hairs.
But if that is all you know, I am sure you never spoke ill of the young
man."

"Not I, Fabens, not I," said Troffater, sobering down at this mild
rebuke. "He's a likely feller. _He'll_ dew wal enough, I'll warrant.
Tell Fan, for me, if she gits George Ludlow, _her_ fortin will be
_fixed_. A good many young bucks, that feels above him, might thank
the powers,