“Then you can’t like the cholera?”
No!—with a hurried pull at the cigar.
“But you’ll have it here!”
Then I’ll be off!
“Where?”
Any where!
“Good, but the exchequer, my boy, how about that? You can’t get away without money.”
There was a long pause, a great cloud of smoke, and much swinging in the hammock, and a final echo—
Money! Yes, I must have money!
So I got up, spasmodically opened my portmanteau, dived deep amongst collars, pencils and foul linen, took out my purse, turned its contents on the table, and began to count.