“It's all the same the whole world over,” broke in Beecher. “The wide-awake ones will have the best seat on the coach.”
Conway made no reply; but the increased energy with which he puffed his cigar bespoke the impatience he was suffering under.
“What became of the daughter?” asked Beecher, abruptly; and then, not awaiting the answer, went on: “A deuced good-looking girl, if properly togged out, but she had n't the slightest notion of dressing herself.”
“Their narrow fortune may have had something to say to that,” said Conway, gravely.
“Where there's a will, there's a way,—that 's my idea. I was never so hard up in life but I could make my tailor torn me out like a gentleman. I take it,” added he, returning to the former theme, “she was a proud one. Old Kellett was awfully afraid of doing many a thing from the dread of her knowing it. He told me so himself.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Conway, with evident pleasure in the tone.
“I could have helped him fifty ways. I knew fellows who would have 'done' his bills,—small sums, of course,—and have shoved him along pleasantly enough, but she would n't have it at any price.”
“I was not aware of that,” remarked Conway, inviting, by his manner, further revelations.
Beecher, however, mistaking the source of the interest he had thus excited, and believing that his own craft and shrewdness were the qualities that awakened respect, went on to show how conversant he was with all financial operations amongst Jews and money-lenders, proudly declaring that there was not a “man on town” knew the cent per centers as he did.
“I've had my little dealings with them,” said he, with some vanity in the manner. “I 've had my paper done when there was n't a fellow on the 'turf' could raise a guinea. You see,” added he, lowering his voice to a whisper that implied secrecy, “I could do them a service no money could repay. I was up to all that went on in life and at the clubs. When Etheridge got it so heavy at the 'Rag,' I warned Fordyce not to advance him beyond a hundred or two. I was the only gentleman knew Brookdale's horse could win 'the Ripsley.' The legs, of course, knew it well before the race came off. Jemmy could have had ten thousand down for his 'book.' Ah! if you and I had only known each other six years ago, what a stroke of work we might have done together! Even now,” said he, with increased warmth of voice, “there's a deuced deal to be done abroad. Brussels and Florence are far from worked out; not among the foreigners, of course, but our own fellows,—the young Oxford and Cambridge 'saps,'—the green ones waiting for their gazette in the Guards! Where are you bound for?—what are you doing?” asked he, as if a sudden thought had crossed his mind.