“That’s right, Harry,” said the old man, earnestly; “don’t, my boy, don’t. George always was close with his money. Well, I’ll see what I can do. How much do you want to spend—a shilling?”
“Hang it all, uncle!” cried Harry angrily, and nearly tearing off his locket, “don’t talk to me as if I were a little boy. I want a hundred pounds.”
“Yes, sir, a hundred pounds,” said Pradelle.
“A hundred, eh? A hundred pounds. Do you, now?” said Uncle Luke, without seeming in the slightest degree surprised.
“The fact is, uncle, my friend Pradelle here is always hearing of openings for making a little money by speculations, and we have a chance now that would make large returns for our venture.”
“Hum! hah!” ejaculated Uncle Luke, as he looked at Pradelle in a quiet, almost appealing way. “Let me see, Mr Pradelle. You are a man of property, are you not!”
“Well, sir, hardly that,” said Pradelle nonchalantly; and he rose, placed his elbows on the rough chimney-piece, and leaned back with his legs crossed as he looked down at Uncle Luke. “My little bit of an estate brings me in a very small income.”
“Estate here?”
“No, no; in France, near Marseilles.”
“That’s awkward; a long way off.”