“So am I,” said Hopper, chuckling, and giving a box on the table a poke with his stick—“busy giving you a taste of my bile.—What have you got there, my pious old saint? ‘Donations for the debt fund of St. Ursula’s Church.’ Ah! that’s a pretty respectable way of doing things—that is. Church in debt. Built up, I’ll be bound, with fal-lals and fancy work and stained glass, and a quire inside—twenty-four sheets to wrap up singing men and boys. Now, look here, Max: if I built a place and hadn’t money to pay for it, you’d call me a rogue.”
“Shall we try and transact the bit of business you came about?” said Max humbly.
“Presently,” said Hopper, who was now wound up, and determined to go on. “Ah, Max, you don’t know what a wicked old man I’ve grown,” he continued, with a sly twinkle in his eye. “But you see I can preach morality—my fashion.”
“We shall never agree upon such points,” said Max wearily.
“Of course not, till you convert me, Max. I’m a brand for the burning, Max. Why don’t you try and save me? Teach me to sing some of those nice hymns you know by heart—‘Fain would I leave this weary world.’ Bah! How many would fain? Who made it weary? Who filled the beautiful world full of diseases and death and wickedness? Humbugs, sir—humbugs. I’m an old worldling, and I was put here in the world, and the longer I live the more beautiful I find it; and I don’t want to leave it, even to carry your secret with me, friend Max Shingle. I mean to live as long as I can, taking my share of the bad as bitter to make the good sweet; and when it’s time to set sail for the other land, I mean to go like a man, and say ‘Thank God for it all. Amen!’ There’s a wicked old reprobate for you, Max. Why don’t you try to convert this old scoundrel, eh? Ah! I’m a bad one—a regular bad one—hopelessly lost. And now I’ve got rid of all my bile, and feel better, get out your cheque-book.”
Max rose with a sigh, unlocked the iron safe in the corner, and took out a cheque-book and laid it upon a table.
“I can very ill spare this, John Hopper,” he said. “Five pounds are five pounds now.”
“Always were, stupid!” said the old fellow. “Dear me, how much better I can hear to-day! Got rid of all that bile,” he added, considering. “But don’t you draw that for five pounds. Make it ten.”
“Ten pounds!” gasped Max.
“Yes. Five extra for your conscience. You don’t suppose your poor conscience is going to preach to you, as it has to-day, for nothing?”