"My friend never committed a murder in his life, Splitters, so he won't dramatize on that score; but he's been accused of one; and he's as innocent as you are, who never murdered any thing in your life but Lindley Murray and the language of your country."
"Who's been murdering somebody?" said the domino-player, passing his left hand through his hair, till his chevelure resembled a turk's-head broom. "Who's murdered? I wish everybody was; and that I could dance my favourite dance upon their graves. Blow that double-six; he's the fellow I ought to play."
"Perhaps you'll give us your auburn-haired friend's name, Darley," said a gentleman with his mouth full of Welsh rarebit; "he doesn't seem too brilliant to live; he'd better have gone to the 'Deadly Livelies,' in the other street." The "Deadly Livelies" was the sobriquet of a rival club, which plumed itself on being a cut above the Cherokees. "Who's dead?" muttered the domino-player. "I wish everybody was, and that I was contracted with to bury 'em cheap. I should have won the game," he added plaintively, "if I could have picked up that double-six."
"I suppose your friend wants to be Vice at our next meeting," said the gentleman with the billiard-cue; who, in default of a row, always complained that the assembly was too quiet for him.
"It wouldn't be the first time if he were Vice, and it wouldn't be the first time if you made him Chair," said Gus. "Come, old fellow, tell them you're come back, and ask them if they're glad to see you?"
The red-haired gentleman at this sprang to his feet, threw off the rosy locks and the ferocious whiskers, and looked round at the Cherokees with his hands in his pockets.
"Daredevil Dick!" A shout arose—one brief wild huzza, such as had not been heard in that room—which, as we know, was none of the quietest—within the memory of the oldest Cherokee. Daredevil Dick—escaped—come back—as handsome as ever—as jolly as ever—as glorious a fellow—as thorough-going a brick—as noble-hearted a trump as eight years ago, when he had been the life and soul of all of them! such shaking of hands; everybody shaking hands with him again and again, and then everybody shaking hands with everybody else; and the billiard-player wiping his eyes with his cue; and the sleepy gentleman waking up and rubbing the mustard into his drowsy optics; and the domino-player, who, though he execrates all mankind, wouldn't hurt the tiniest wing of the tiniest fly, even he makes a miraculous effort, picks up the double-six, and magnanimously presents it to Richard.
"Take it—take it, old fellow, and may it make you happy! If I'd played that domino, I should have won the game." Upon which he executed two or three steps of a Cherokee dance, and relapsed into the aforesaid imbecile imprecations, in mixed
