“I’ve read that ten times over,” said Dick, “and hang me if I know what it means. It’s too fine and sentimental for me. Why, if he was half the man I took him for, he’d come down here and say, ‘Uncle, blood’s thicker than water: shall we cry “wiped out” to all that’s gone by?—because, if so, ’ere’s my ’art and ’ere’s my ’and.’”
“Hey?”
“’Ere’s my ’art and ’ere’s my ’and,” roared Dick.
“And what should you say to that?” chuckled Hopper.
“I should say, ‘Tom, my lad, I don’t want your ’art, and I don’t want your ’and, for I’ve got a ’art as is, I hope, a warm one, and I’ve got a ’and to offer to the man I can believe in and trust. Take yours somewheres else, and offer ’em where they may be taken.’”
Dick winked at his friend, and jerked his thumb over his shoulder, where, seen dimly in the farther room, were Jessie and Mrs Shingle—Dick having taken a house at Hastings, and gone down for change, he said, but really on account of the weak state of Jessie’s health; and now he and his friend were having a pipe together in the inner room.
“He’s too cocky,” said Hopper: “he’s as proud as Lucifer. He won’t come and ask till he’s made money, and can be independent.”
“That’s where he’s such a fool,” said Dick. “Of course I’m not going to say ‘Come down and marry my gal,’ who’s dying to have him; but he can have her when he likes; and as to money, why, there’s enough for all.”
“Tom won’t want for money,” said Hopper, blowing out a great cloud.
“Oh, won’t he?” said Dick. “Well, a good job too. What’s become of Fred?”