composedly:
“Well, the wonderful tragedy is done, and it transpires that I am
indebted to you for my late eloquence. What of it? What was all this
for and what does it amount to after all? What do you propose to do
about it?”
“Oh nothing. It is only a bit of pleasantry. When I overheard that
conversation I took an early opportunity to ask Mr. Buckstone if he knew
of anybody who might want a speech written–I had a friend, and so forth
and so on. I was the friend, myself; I thought I might do you a good
turn then and depend on you to do me one by and by. I never let Mr.
Buckstone have the speech till the last moment, and when you hurried off
to the House with it, you did not know there was a missing page, of
course, but I did.
“And now perhaps you think that if I refuse to support your bill, you
will make a grand exposure?”
“Well I had not thought of that. I only kept back the page for the mere
fun of the thing; but since you mention it, I don’t know but I might do
something if I were angry.”
“My dear Miss Hawkins, if you were to give out that you composed my
speech, you know very well that people would say it was only your
raillery, your fondness for putting a victim in the pillory and amusing
the public at his expense. It is too flimsy, Miss Hawkins, for a person
of your fine inventive talent–contrive an abler device than that.
Come!”
“It is easily done, Mr. Trollop. I will hire a man, and pin this page on
his breast, and label it, “The Missing Fragment of the Hon. Mr. Trollop’s
Great Speech–which speech was written and composed by Miss Laura Hawkins
under a secret understanding for one hundred dollars–and the money has
not been paid. And I will pin round about it notes in my handwriting,
which I will procure from prominent friends of mine for the occasion;
also your printed speech in the Globe, showing the connection between its
bracketed hiatus and my Fragment; and I give you my word of honor that I
will stand that human bulletin board in the rotunda of the capitol and
make him stay there a week! You see you are premature, Mr. Trollop, the
wonderful tragedy is not done yet, by any means. Come, now, doesn’t it
improve?”
Mr Trollop opened his eyes rather widely at this novel aspect of the
case. He got up and walked the floor and gave himself a moment for
reflection. Then he stopped and studied Laura’s face a while, and ended
by saying:
“Well, I am obliged to believe yon would be reckless enough to do that.”
“Then don’t put me to the test, Mr. Trollop. But let’s drop the matter.
I have had my joke and you’ve borne the infliction becomingly enough.
It spoils a jest to harp on it after one has had one’s laugh. I would
much rather talk about my bill.”
“So would I, now, my clandestine amanuensis. Compared with some other
subjects, even your bill is a pleasant topic to discuss.”
“Very good indeed! I thought. I could persuade you. Now I am sure you
will be generous to the poor negro and vote for that bill.”
“Yes, I feel more tenderly toward the oppressed colored man than I did.
Shall we bury the hatchet and be good friends and respect each other’s
little secrets, on condition that I vote Aye on the measure?”
“With all my heart, Mr. Trollop. I give you my word of that.”
“It is a bargain. But isn’t there something else you could give me,
too?”
Laura looked at him inquiringly a moment, and then she comprehended.
“Oh, yes! You may have it now. I haven’t any, more use for it.” She
picked up the page of manuscript, but she reconsidered her intention of
handing it to him, and said, “But never mind; I will keep it close; no
one shall see it; you shall have it as soon as your vote is recorded.”
Mr. Trollop looked disappointed. But presently made his adieux, and had