“Well,” grumbled out Grog, at last, for he was getting irritable at the exaggerated estimate Hankes formed of his chief, “what has it all come to? Ain't he smashed at last?”
“He smashed!” cried Hankes, in derision. “He smashed! You are smashed! I am smashed! any one else you like is smashed, but he is not! Mind my words, Davis, Davenport Dunn will be back here, in London, before two years are over, with the grandest house and the finest retinue in town. His dinners will be the best, and his balls the most splendid of the season. No club will rival his cook, no equipage beat his in the Park. When he rises in the Lords,—which he 'll do only seldom,—there will be a most courteous attention to his words; and, above all, you'll never read one disparaging word about him in the papers. I give him two years, but it's just as likely he 'll do it in less.”
“It may be all as you say,” said Grog, sullenly, “though I won't say I believe it myself; but, at all events, it does n't help me on my way to my own business with him. I want these papers of Lackington's out of his hands! He may 'walk into' the whole world, for all that I care: but I want to secure my daughter as the Viscountess,—that's how it stands.”
“How much ready money can you command? What sum can you lay your hand on?”
Grog drew his much-worn pocket-book from his breast, and, opening the leaves, began to count to himself.
“Something like fifty-seven pounds odd shillings,” said he, with a grin.
“If you could have said twelve or fourteen thousand down, it might be nearer the mark. Conway's people are ready with about ten thousand.”
“How do you know?” asked Grog, savagely.
“Dunn told me as much. But he does n't like to treat with them, because the difficulty about the Irish estate would still remain unsettled.”
“Then what am I to do? How shall I act?” asked Grog.