"And the postmark was Kingston, Jamaica," said he.
"It recalls my youth," said Cicero. "Ah! they were happy, happy days!"
"What was Mr. Marlow, sir?"
"A planter of--of--rice," hazarded Gramp. He knew that there were planters in the West Indies, but he was not quite sure what it was they planted. "Rice--acres of it!"
"Well, he didn't make his money out of that, sir," growled the coachman.
"No, he did not," admitted the professor of elocution. "He acquired his millions in Mashonaland--the Ophir of the Jews."
This last piece of knowledge had been acquired from Slack, the schoolmaster.
"He was precious careful not to part with none of it," said the footman.
"Except to Dr. Warrender," said the cook. "The doctor was always screwing money out of him. Not that it was so much 'im as 'is wife. I can't abear that doctor's wife--a stuck-up peacock, I call her. She fairly ruined her husband in clothes. Miss Sophy didn't like her, neither."
"Dick's child!" cried Gramp, who had by this time procured a cigar from the footman. "Ah! is little Sophy still alive?"