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Updated: June 29, 2025
Klopton came in at that moment, with an eggnog in her hand. She glanced at the clock, and, without addressing any one in particular, she intimated that it was time for self-respecting folks to be at home in bed. McKnight, who could never resist a fling at her back, spoke to me in a stage whisper. "Is she talking still? or again?" he asked, just before the door closed.
Klopton was broiling a chop at the time and took his departure, humming cheerfully as he went down-stairs. McKnight looked after him wistfully. "Jove, I wish I had his constitution," he exclaimed. "Neither nerves nor heart! What a chauffeur he would make!" But I was serious.
He always removed it before his pupils arrived and never put it back until their departure, thus insuring the secrecy of its hiding-place, and only his wife, his sister-in-law, Mollenhauer, a friend, and Klopton, a prospective purchaser, knew where it lay.
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