“An uncommonly foolish observation of Dryden’s,” returned Uncle Jack; “he ought to have known better.”
“So he did,” said I, “for he used his pen to fill his pockets, poor man!”
“But the pen was not venal, Master Anachronism,” said my father. “A baker is not to be called venal if he sells his loaves, he is venal if he sells himself; Dryden only sold his loaves.”
“And we must sell yours,” said Uncle Jack, emphatically. “A thousand pounds a volume will be about the mark, eh?”
“A thousand pounds a volume!” cried my father. “Gibbon, I fancy, did not receive more.”
“Very likely; Gibbon had not an Uncle Jack to look after his interests,” said Mr. Tibbets, laughing, and rubbing those smooth hands of his. “No! two thousand pounds the two volumes,—a sacrifice, but still I recommend moderation.”
“I should be happy indeed if the book brought in anything,” said my father, evidently fascinated; “for that young gentleman is rather expensive. And you, my dear Jack,—perhaps half the sum may be of use to you!”
“To me! my dear brother,” cried Uncle Jack “to me! Why when my new speculation has succeeded, I shall be a millionnaire!”
“Have you a new speculation, uncle?” said I, anxiously. “What is it?”
“Mum!” said my uncle, putting his finger to his lip, and looking all round the room; “Mum! Mum!”