Harry shook his head.
“Get out! I won’t have it. You want waking up,” said Pradelle, in a low, earnest voice. “Think, lad, a few pounds placed as I could place ’em, and there’s fortune for us both, without reckoning on what you could do in France. As your aunt says, there’s money and a title waiting for you, if you’ll only stretch out your hand to take ’em. Come, rouse yourself. Harry Vine isn’t the lad to settle down to this drudgery. Why, I thought it was one of the workmen when I came up.”
“It’s of no use,” said Harry gloomily, as he seated himself on the ingots of tin. “A man must submit to his fate.”
“Bah! a man’s fate is what he makes it. Look here; fifty or a hundred borrowed for a few days, and then repaid.”
“But suppose—”
“Suppose!” cried Pradelle mockingly; “a business man has no time to suppose. He strikes while the iron’s hot. You’re going to strike iron, not tin.”
“How? Where’s the money?”
“Where’s the money?” said Pradelle mockingly. “You want fifty or a hundred for a few days, when you could return it fifty times over; and you say, where’s the money?”
“Don’t I tell you I have no one I could borrow from?” said Harry angrily.
“Yes, you have,” said Pradelle, sinking his voice. “It’s easy as easy. Only for a few days. A temporary loan. Look here.”