est there is in the house,
which I think did delight Dawson not less than his Moll to hear.

Then Moll gives her father a kiss, and me another according to her wont,
and drops a civil curtsey to Don Sanchez.

"Give me thy hand, child," says he; and having it, he lifts it to his
lips and kisses it as if she had been the finest lady in the land.

She being gone, the Don calls for a second bowl of spiced wine, and we,
mightily pleased at the prospect of another half-hour of comfort,
stretch our legs out afresh before the fire. Then Don Sanchez, lighting
another cigarro, and setting his chair towards us, says as he takes his
knee up betwixt his long, thin fingers:

"Now let us come to the heart of this business and understand one
another clearly."

CHAPTER III.

_Of that design which Don Sanchez opened to us at the Bell._

We pulled our pipes from our mouths, Dawson and I, and stretched our
ears very eager to know what this business was the Don had to propound,
and he, after drawing two or three mouthfuls of smoke, which he expelled
through his nostrils in a most surprising unnatural manner, says in
excellent good English, but speaking mighty slow and giving every letter
its worth:

"What do you go to do to-morrow?"

"The Lord only knows," answers Jack, and Don Sanchez, lifting his
eyebrows as if he considers this no answer at all, he continues: "We
cannot go hence with none of our stage things; and if we could, I see
not how we are to act our play, now that our villain is gone, with a
plague to him! I doubt but we must sell all that we have for the few
shillings they will fetch to get us out of this hobble."

"With our landlord's permission," remarks Don Sanchez, dryly.

"Permission!" cries Dawson, in a passion. "I ask no man's permission to
do what I please with my own."

"Suppose he claims these things in payment of the money you owe him.
What then?" asks the Don.

"We never thought of that, Kit," says Dawson, turning to me in a pucker.
"But 'tis likely enough he has, for I observed he was mighty careless
whether we found our thief or not. That's it, sure enough. We have
nought to hope. All's lost!"

With that he drops his elbows on his knees, and stares into the fire
with a most desponding countenance, being in that stage of liquor when a
man must either laugh or weep.

"Come, Jack," says I. "You are not used to yield like this. Let us make
the best of a bad lot, and face the worst like men.