ld had announced his mind, the visitor had worn out
his welcome in most of his tavern haunts, and become correspondingly
tired of New York. One evening, as Philip was leaving the warehouse, a
negro boy handed him a note, in which Mr. Ned begged him to come
immediately, on a matter of importance, to the King's Arms tavern.
There he found Edward seated at a small table in a corner of the
tap-room. Ned would have it that Phil should send home his excuses, by
the negro, and sup at the tavern; which, for the sake of peace, though
unwillingly, Philip finally consented to do.

Edward was drinking rum, in a kind of hot punch of his own mixing.
Phil, though fond of madeira at home, now contented himself with ale;
and the two were soon at work upon a fried chicken prepared in the
Maryland fashion.

"You know, Phil," says Ned at last, having talked in a lively strain
upon a multitude of matters, none of which Philip perceived to be
important, "'fore gad, I always liked you! Tis so, as the Lord's my
judge. Nay, you think I took a damned odd way of showing it. But we're
not all alike. Now look you! Hearken unto me, as the parson says. I
can say a good word for you in a certain ear."

"Whose?" queried Phil, wondering in what ear he needed a good word
said.

"Whose, eh? Now whose would it be? Come, come, I'll speak to the
point. I'm no man for palaver. 'Tis an ear you've whispered more than
one sweet thing into, I'll warrant. You're young, Philip, young: you
think you can fall in love and nobody find it out. Why, I hadn't been
landed two hours, and asked the news, when I was told that you and
Bert Russell were over ears in love with my sister."

Phil merely looked his astonishment.

"Now, sir, you mayn't think it," says Mr. Ned, "but my word has some
weight with Fanny."

"Fanny?" echoed Philip. "What has she to do with it?"

"Why, everything, I fancy. The lady usually has--"

"But Fanny isn't the lady."

"What? Then who the devil is?"

"I don't think 'tis a matter need be talked of now," said Phil.

"But I'd like to know--'gad, it can't be the other sister! Madge--that
spitfire! Well, well! Your face speaks, if your tongue won't. Who'd
have thought any man would go soft over such a vixen? Well, I can't
help you there, my lad!"

"I haven't asked your help," says Phil with a smile.

"Now, it's a pity," says Ned, dolefully, "for I thought by doing you a
good turn I might get you to do me another."

"Oh, I see! Why, th