“So much the better for _them_,” said Paul, gravely. A pause of considerable duration now ensued between them, broken, at last, by Davis abruptly saying, “Is it not a strange thing, it was only last night I was saying to myself, 'What the deuce has become of Holy Paul?--the newspapers have seemingly forgotten him. It can't be that he is dead.'” “Lazarus only sleepeth,” said Classon; “and, indeed, my last eleven weeks here seem little other than a disturbed sleep.” Continuing his own train of thought, Davis went on, “If I could chance upon him now, he's just the fellow I want, or, rather, that I may want.” “If it is a lampoon or a satire you 're thinking of, Kit, I 've given them up; I make no more blistering ointments, but turn all my skill to balsams. They give no trouble in compounding, and pay even better. Ah, Davis, my worthy friend, what a mistake it is to suppose that a man must live by his talents, while his real resource is his temperament. For a life of easy enjoyment, that blessed indolence that never knew a care, it is heart, not head, is needed.” “All I can say is, that with the fellows I 've been most with, heart had very little to do with them, and the best head was the one that least trusted his neighbors.” “A narrow view, my dear friend,--a narrow view, take my word for it; as one goes on in life he thinks better of it.” A malicious grin was all the answer Davis made to this remark. At last he turned his eyes full upon the other, and in a low but distinct voice said: “Let us have no more of this, Paul. If we are to play, let us play, as the Yankees say, without the 'items,'--no cheating on either side. Don't try the Grand Benevolence dodge with me,--don't. When I said awhile ago, I might want you, it was no more than I meant. You _may_ be able to render me a service,--a great service.” “Say how,” said Classon, drawing his chair nearer to him,--“say how, Kit, and you'll not find the terms exorbitant.” “It's time enough to talk about the stakes when we are sure the match will come off,” said Davis, cautiously. “All I 'll say for the present is, I may want you.” Classon took out a small and very greasy-looking notebook from his waistcoat-pocket, and with his pencil in hand, said, “About what time are you likely to need me? Don't be particular as to a day or a week, but just in a rough-guessing sort of way say when.” “I should say in less than a month from this time,--perhaps within a fortnight.” “All right,” said Classon, closing his book, after making a brief note. “You smile,” said he, blandly, “at my methodical habits, but I have been a red-tapist all my life, Kit I don't suppose you 'll find any man's papers, letters, documents, and so forth, in such trim order as mine,--all labelled, dated, and indexed. Ah! there is a great philosophy in this practical equanimity; take my word for it, there is.”