“Yes, you do; and right well too,” broke in Grog, boldly. “What rubbish have you got into your head now, about 'a place' for me? What nonsensical scheme about making me an inspector of this or a collector of that? Do you imagine that for any paltry seven or eight hundred a year I 'm going to enter into recognizance not to do what's worth six times the amount? Mayhap you 'd like to send me to India or to China. Oh, that's the dodge, is it?” exclaimed he, as the crimson flush now extended over Beecher's forehead to the very roots of his hair. “Well, where is it to be? There 's a place called Bogota, where they always have yellow fever; couldn't you get me named consul there? Oh dear, oh dear!” laughed he out, “how you _will_ go on playing that little game, though you never score a point!” “I sometimes imagine that you don't know how offensive your language is,” said Beecher, whose angry indignation had mastered all his fears; “at least, it is the only explanation I can suggest for your conduct towards myself!” “Look at it this way,” said Grog; “if you always lost the game whenever you played against one particular man, wouldn't you give in at last, and own him for your master? Well, now, that is exactly what you are doing with me,--losing, losing on, and yet you won't see that you're beaten.” “I'll tell you what I see, sir,” said Beecher, haughtily,--“that our intercourse must cease.” Was it not strange that this coarse man, reckless in action, headstrong and violent, felt abashed, for the instant, in presence of the dignified manner which, for a passing moment, the other displayed. It was the one sole weapon Grog Davis could not match; and before the “gentleman” he quailed, but only for a second or two, when he rallied, and said, “I want the intercourse as little as you do. I am here for the pleasure of being with my daughter.” “As for that,” began Beecher, “there is no need--” He stopped abruptly, something terribly menacing in Grog's face actually arresting his words in the utterance. “Take you care what you say,” muttered Grog, as he approached him, and spoke with a low, guttural growl. “I have n't much patience at the best of times; don't provoke me _now._” “Will you take this letter,--yes or no?” said Beecher, resolutely. “I will: seal and address it,” said Grog, searching for a match to light the taper, while Beecher folded the letter, and wrote the direction. Davis continued to break match after match in his effort to strike a light. Already the dusk of declining day filled the room, and objects were dimly descried. Beecher's heart beat violently. The thought that even yet, if he could summon courage for it, he might outwit Grog, sent a wild thrill through him. What ecstasy, could he only succeed! “Curse these wax contrivances! the common wooden ones never failed,” muttered Davis. “There goes the fifth.” “If you 'll ring for Fisher--”