“Haven’t you got five hundred dollars?” asked Hockley, with interest.
“Not now. I had a good deal more than that, but I was burnt out, and there was a flaw in my insurance papers, so I couldn’t get my money from the company.” Dan Markel told the falsehood without a blush.
“But what do you expect to do in Curaçao without money—strike some sort of job?”
“I’ve got a rich friend, who has a plantation in the interior. I think he will give me a place. But I’d rather establish myself in the town. He wrote to me that there was a good opening for a tobacco shop. If I could get somebody to advance me five hundred dollars I’d be willing to pay back a thousand for it at the end of six months.”
Now Hockley was carrying five hundred dollars with him, which an indulgent father had given to him for “extras,” as he expressed it, for Professor Strong was to pay all regular bills. The money was in gold, for gold is a standard no matter where you travel. Hockley thought of this gold, and of how he would like it to be a thousand instead of five hundred dollars.
“I’ve got five hundred dollars with me,” he said, in his bragging way. “My father gave it to me to have a good time on.”
“Then you must be rich,” was the answer from the man from Baltimore.
“Dad’s a millionaire,” said Hockley, trying to put on an air of superiority. “Made every cent of it himself, too.”
“I suppose you’ve got to pay your way with the money.”
“No, old Strong pays the bills.”