“I believe that fully,” replied Dr. Manning; “but I want you to understand that I have at least as deep an interest in this matter as you have.” “Well, then,” replied the Judge, “if I lose anything in it, I’ll call on you for your check for half. Is that fair?” “Perfectly,” said Dr. Manning. “When shall you send for him?” “First thing Monday,” said the Judge. “I arranged that with him when I was there. We’ll have this matter settled, or nearly so, before we’re a week older.” That was all very well for them who seemed to understand it, but what of the two impatient boys up there in Ogleport? What, too, of Mr. Ashbel Norton, fretting and fuming at his hotel, or in aimless drives around the city? What, more than all, of Major Montague, _alias_ “Major Robert Norton, formerly of the British army,” as he drooped and muttered behind the bars of his solitary prison cell? “I never dreamed of this,” he said, as if reproaching somebody. “It came awfully near it sometimes, that’s a fact; but I always thought I could fend it off somehow. I always did, too, till that young rascal caught me in a bad way, and run off with that valise. And so poor Lydia’s dead, and she’s left a will! Don’t I wish I knew just what was in that will!” Very likely he did, but, just as likely it would not have done him any especial amount of good if he had been familiar with every word of it. He was only one of the vast crowd of human beings who “make their own bed” and then have to lie on it. CHAPTER XXVII THE FISHING PARTY That Saturday morning dawned fair enough in Ogleport. To be sure, there were a few clouds lurking along the far away outlines of the hills, but they did not seem to amount to anything in particular; not even enough to justify Mrs. Dryer in bringing such a very cloudy face to the breakfast-table. She had said all she had to say, and that was no very small thing, to the Doctor, before they went to sleep the night before and as soon as they waked up that morning, but she had somehow failed in getting a fair chance at Euphemia. In fact, for once in her life, to say the very least, Effie Dryer’s face was not altogether sunny. The usually smiling mouth had settled into lines that betokened a mind made up and a temper not to be trifled with. It is barely possible that her father’s third wife had sense enough to understand the meaning of Effie’s face, and so, although there were clouds enough at that end of the breakfast-table, they followed the good example of those on the hills and waited a better opportunity before breaking into anything like a storm. As for George Brayton, he had decided that the trip to the lake should not be a “walk,” and Runner’s best pair of horses, in front of what he was pleased to call a “baroosh,” were on hand in due time to transport the sailing-party, lunch and all.