“So glad, I cannot tell you,” cried Max, taking out and unfolding a cambric handkerchief, which he held to one eye, looked at it afterwards to see if there was a moist spot for result, and, as there was not, tried the other eye with rather better success. “You’ll shake hands?”
“Oh yes,” said Dick. “How are you, Max?”
“Quite well, my dear brother: but why haven’t you been to see me all these long months?”
“Long months, eh? I never found ’em long. I began to think I was being took advantage of now that I was well off, and getting short measure.”
“Then you are very well off?”
“Tol-lol, tol-lol; nothing much to grumble about. But sit down.”
He placed an easy chair for his brother, seating himself afterwards on the edge of the table and watching his visitor sharply.
“I’m very glad of it, Richard,” cried Max, after a glance round. “You know, I always thought that a man with your brains was throwing himself away on trade, and wasting his energies.”
“Oh! you did, did you?”
“Always, my dear brother; and that’s why I used to speak so sharply to you—to rouse you—to awaken you.”