The scholar and the merchant at play were like two boys out of school; the dry whimsical humor of the Scotsman and the volatile sparkle of the Irishman made them capital foils.
Killigrew dropped his _Rodney Stone_.
"Say, Crawford," he began, "after seeing ten thousand saints in ten thousand cathedrals, since February, I'd give a hundred dollars for a ringside ticket to a scrap like that one,"-- indicating the volume on his knee.
Crawford lay back and laughed.
"Well," said his wife, with an amused smile, "why don't you say it ?" "Say what ?" "'So would I!'" "Men are quite hopeless," sighed Mrs.Killigrew, when the laughter had subsided.
"You oughtn't object to a good shindy, Molly," slyly observed her husband.

"You'll never forgive me that black eye." "I'll never forgive the country you got it in,"-- grimly.

"But what's the harm in a good scrap between two husky fellows, trained to a hair to slam-bang each other ?" "It isn't refined, dad," said Kitty.
He sent a searching glance at her; he never was sure when that girl was laughing.

"Fiddle-sticks! For four months now I've been shopping every day with you women, and you can't tell me prize-fights are brutal." Crawford applauded gently.
"By the way, Crawford, you know something about direct charity." Killigrew threw back his rug and sat up.

"I've got an idea.