“And now, old man, let’s hold a council of war. Subject to be considered: the future of a young man who has been cut off with a shilling—by George! the poor old fellow didn’t even leave me that—who knows no trade, who cannot dig, and to beg is ashamed, and who is penniless.”
“Quite penniless, Jack?” asked Leonard.
Jack rose, and sauntering to a drawer, pulled forth an old tobacco pouch, and pouring the contents on to the table proceeded to count the small—very small—heap of coin.
“Twenty-one pounds six-and-fourpence farthing—no; it’s a brass button—and a brass button.”
“Can’t carry on this way long with that small amount of ammunition, Jack.”
“Just so, old Solomon. Well, what’s to be done?”
“You might enlist.”
“Get shot, and break your heart. No, I’m too fond of you, Len. Go on; anything else?”
“Upon my word, you can’t do anything.”
“Nary thing,” admitted Jack, with frank candor.