“No! What?” exclaimed Max, in agony.
“Well, I’ve written it all down neatly on paper—not on a slate; and I’ve deposited it with my will.”
“Where?”
“Ah, yes, that’s another thing. Where it would be opened and read directly I was dead. Ha! ha! ha! Max, what an exposé that would be! But don’t be nervous, man, and look so white. It wouldn’t be a hanging matter.” Max stretched across the table, and laid his hand upon his visitor’s lips; but the old man thrust his chair back, gave the hand a sharp rap with his stick, and Max shrank back in his chair.
“It isn’t, I say, a hanging matter. But I say, Max, old fellow, I should look sharp after that boy Fred. Don’t let him get into temptation. Like father, like son. Now, Tom—”
“Curse Tom!” cried Max, biting his nails.
“Not I,” laughed the old man. “He isn’t so bad; and you curse him quite often enough, you know. Ah, Max, what a blessing and relief it must be to you that you have reformed so, and become such a good, pious man!”
Max raised his hands.
“One of those dear, good creatures,” chuckled the old fellow, “who go through life saying ‘Have mercy upon us miserable sinners,’ and then feel so happy. Not a bit of the Pharisee about you, Max—all humble Publican. I say, why don’t you build a church or a chapel? That’s the proper thing to do. ‘Publican’ put me in mind of it. It’s what the brewers and distillers do. Make fortunes out of the vice and misery of the people, and then buy a seat in the heavenly Parliament by building a church—”
“My dear Hopper,” began Max.