“There, we’ll have Jack in again. And, look here: it’s cowardly and mean of me to give up like that; but it’s the last time. So there, mother,” he said, smiling, as he rose and stood between them, “as a respectable tradesman I object to swearing, as is only allowable when you want to take an oath. I’m going to take an oath now, when I says I’ll be cussed if I give way again, and—”
“Here’s a letter, master!” cried the boy, rushing in.
“A letter?” said Dick, taking it with his apron. “Who’s been a-writing to me? Perhaps it’s about that money, mother, and we shall—Here, my eyes are all of a swim. Did the postman give it to you, Jack?”
“Yes, master, at the door,” said the boy eagerly.
Mrs Shingle took the letter, and opened it, to find a clean, new ten-pound note inside, which she spread out and held to her husband.
Dick took it, turned it upside down, over, round and round, and held it up to the light.
“It’s—it’s a duffer, mother,” he said at last, with his voice trembling; “it’s a flash note, like—like they are at the races. Bank of Elegance.”
”‘For the Governor and Company of the Bank of England,’” read Jessie slowly.
“No! Does it say so?” cried Dick excitedly. “Then it’s a good one, and it’s a mistake. It isn’t for me. Give me the envelope.”
He took it hastily, and read aloud, “Mr Richard Shingle, Shoemaker, Crowder’s Buildings, Lower Street, Islington.”