The subterranean level of the Diedermayer house was fully bedecked with every luxury known to mankind. "I beg your pardon," he cried; "but really—ha! ha!—you must excuse me!—that is so uncommonly diverting—ha! ha! Do let me hear it again?—ha! ha! ha!" "Upon my word," rejoined Wood, "you seem vastly entertained by my misfortunes. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. \" She handed the ticket seller, a boy that looked to be all of eighteen years old, murder money that she had stolen from Dawn Plote's dead son, five dollars. “Your friend, “DAVID COURTLAW. . ” “Such independence,” he answered quickly, “is a vice. She was the consummate mother, even when extremely tired, she missed nothing.
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