“Well, you did that, and no mistake!” said Dick, laughing.
“And look at the result. You set-to and hit up some bright idea; and now, before two years have elapsed, I come and find you a millionaire.”
“Well, not quite that, Max: a million’s a stiff sum, Max—a very stiff sum.”
“Hah! it’s refreshing to come and hear you call me again by that familiar name, Richard: it reminds me of when we were boys.” And Max again raised his handkerchief to his eyes.
“Well, old fellow, I wouldn’t cry about it if I was you. It’s all right now. You always was pretty well down upon me when I was a poor man; but as you’ve come and showed, as I said to Polly, that blood’s thicker than water, why, we’ll forget all about the past.”
“We will,” cried Max, taking his brother’s hand and beginning to pump it up and down, clinging to it the while as if he were afraid of being parted, and ending by trying to embrace him.
“I say, don’t do that!” cried Dick sharply. “I’m pretty well off, but I can only afford one clean shirt a day.”
“Jocular as ever,” said Max, holding his head on one side, and looking at him admiringly. “Humour flourishes in a golden soil. And so, my dear Richard, you make your twenty per cent, out of your profession?”
“Twenty per cent!” said Dick contemptuously. “Why, you don’t think this sort of thing’s done on twenty per cent, do you?”
“How much, then?”