"Dear me! It's really a most important place!" cried Martin, turning round.
"Oh! it's very important," observed the agent.
"But, I am afraid," said Martin, glancing again at the Public Buildings, "that there's nothing left for me to do."
"Well! it ain't all built," replied the agent. "Not quite."
This was a great relief.
"The market-place, now," said Martin. "Is that built?"
"That?" said the agent, sticking his toothpick into the weathercock on the top. "Let me see. No: that ain't built."
"Rather a good job to begin with,—eh, Mark?" whispered Martin, nudging him with his elbow.
Mark, who, with a very stolid countenance had been eyeing the plan and the agent by turns, merely rejoined "Uncommon!"
A dead silence ensued, Mr. Scadder in some short recesses or vacations of his toothpick, whistled a few bars of Yankee Doodle, and blew the dust off the roof of the Theatre.
"I suppose," said Martin, feigning to look more narrowly at the plan, but showing by his tremulous voice how much depended, in his mind, upon the answer; "I suppose there are—several architects there?"
"There ain't a single one," said Scadder.
"Mark," whispered Martin, pulling him by the sleeve, "do you hear that? But whose work is all this before us, then?" he asked aloud.
"The soil being very fruitful, public buildings grows spontaneous, perhaps," said Mark.
He was on the agent's dark side as he said it; but Scadder instantly changed his place, and brought his active eye to bear upon him.
"Feel of my hands, young man," he said.
"What for?" asked Mark: declining.
"Air they dirty, or air they clean, sir?" said Scadder, holding them out.
In a physical point of view they were decidedly dirty. But it being obvious that Mr. Scadder offered them for examination in a figurative sense, as emblems of his moral character, Martin hastened to pronounce them pure as the driven snow.
"I entreat, Mark," he said, with some irritation, "that you will not obtrude remarks of that nature, which, however harmless and well-intentioned, are quite out of place, and cannot be expected to be very agreeable to strangers. I am quite surprised."
"The Co.'s a putting his foot in it already," thought Mark. "He must be a sleeping partner—fast asleep and snoring—Co. must: I see."
Mr. Scadder said nothing, but he set his back against the plan, and thrust his toothpick into the desk some twenty times: looking at Mark all the while as if he were stabbing him in effigy.
"You haven't said whose work it is," Martin ventured to observe, at length, in a tone of mild propitiation.
"Well, never mind whose work it is, or isn't," said the agent sulkily. "No matter how it did eventuate. P'raps he cleared off, handsome, with a heap of dollars; p'rhaps he wasn't worth a cent. P'raps he was a loafin' rowdy; p'raps a ring-tailed roarer. Now!"
