“Oh, there, my gal, no one’s going to die yet; but I say, Jessie, your cousin Tom—you wouldn’t mind meeting him, too?”
She turned upon him a mingled look of joy and dread; and then, shaking her head—
“No, no, father,” she exclaimed, closing her eyes, and with the veins in her forehead standing out—“I could not bear to meet him.”
“It’s Fred! I said it was,” exclaimed Dick to himself. “Well, I’m sorry; but it can’t be helped. I’ll talk to him like a father, and bring him round. Now, if—What do you want, John?”
He turned sharply round, for the door opened, and a page in a neat livery, hardly recognisable as the ’prentice of the shoemaker’s workshop, entered the room.
“Please, sir, here’s a gentleman to see you.”
“Who is it?” cried Dick; “and what are you grinning at?”
“Please, sir, it’s Mr Maximilian Shingle; and ’ere’s his card.”
Max Shingle had made up his mind, without any allusion to blood being thicker than water, to make the first advance to his brother. For it was very evident that Dick had hit upon some means of making money rapidly, whilst of late matters had been turning out very badly in his own business arrangements. No matter what he tried, or how he speculated, everything went wrong; until, in a kind of reckless gambling fit, to try and recoup himself for past losses, he had plunged himself more deeply in the mire.
He had broached his intentions to his wife and ward at breakfast time, and Mrs Max had shed tears.