"Gammon."
"It's all, at any rate, that you're going to get. Will you have it now?"
"You found the tomb, did you?"
"Yes; I found the tomb. Here is a photograph of it. You can keep a copy if you like it."
"What do I want of a copy," said the man, taking the photograph in his hand. "He was always more trouble than he was worth,—was Ferdy. It's a pity she didn't marry me. I'd 've made a woman of her." Peacocke shuddered as he heard this, but he said nothing. "You may as well give us the picter;—it'll do to hang up somewhere if ever I have a room of my own. How plain it is. Ferdinand Lefroy,—of Kilbrack! Kilbrack indeed! It's little either of us was the better for Kilbrack. Some of them psalm-singing rogues from New England has it now;—or perhaps a right-down nigger. I shouldn't wonder. One of our own lot, maybe! Oh; that's the money, is it?—A thousand dollars; all that I'm to have for coming to England and telling you, and bringing you back, and showing you where you could get this pretty picter made." Then he took the money, a thick roll of notes, and crammed them into his pocket.
"You'd better count them."
"It ain't worth the while with such a trifle as that."
"Let me count them then."
"You'll never have that plunder in your fists again, my fine fellow."
"I do not want it."