“Ah! I don’t know—I don’t know,” said the old fellow. “There’s a deal of trickery in the world. If it’s a good one, then, Dick, and you did come by it honestly, you’ll lend me a few shillings, Dick, eh? Say ten.”
“Hopper, old man,” said Dick, “you shall have a pound if you like. And, look here, I’ve hit a bright idea at last.”
“No—have you?” said Hopper, whose hearing seemed wonderfully good.
“Yes, old chap; and a fortune will come of it. And, look here: we’ve been best friends when it was hard times,—there’s an easy chair in the corner for you when it’s soft times. None of your turning proud, you know.”
“Hey? Turn proud? No; I sha’n’t turn proud. You will. Won’t he, Jessie?”
“No,” said Jessie, speaking up. “Father will never alter—never.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” said Dick, with a peculiar smile, which he seemed to wipe off directly by passing his hand across his mouth. “Perhaps I may alter, you know, and a good deal too. But, look here, old Hopper, you stop to-day, and we’ll have a holiday—the first I’ve had for years.”
“Hey? Holiday? What, go out?”
“No,” said Dick, “stay at home. We’ll have a bit of supper together, and drink the health of him as sent me that money—bless him. I can’t work to-day. I’m ripening up something, and I can do it best over the old fiddle. We haven’t had a scrape for weeks.”
“Scrape? No,” said the old fellow, “we haven’t;” and, getting up, he toddled to the corner cupboard, from which he drew out a violoncello in its faded green baize bag, and, patting it affectionately, brought it out into the middle of the room. “I was going to take it away to-day,” he said. “It’s too valuable to be lost.”