“Never,” said Mrs Shingle tartly.
“Now, there’s where you are so wrong, mother,” said Dick. “It’s very kind of the old fellow, who must have got on famously to be able to send us a few pounds—it’s sure to be pounds when it does come.”
“And it won’t never come,” said Mrs Shingle; “for you’ve had that letter nine months.”
“Well, if it don’t, mother, it don’t—that’s all; but what I say is, blood is thicker than water, or else old Uncle Eb—as I never see, only heard o—wouldn’t have said he’d send me a present—would he, Hoppy?”
“Hey?”
“I say Uncle Rounce wouldn’t have said he’d send me a present if blood warn’t thicker than water.”
“No. Have you got it yet?” said the old fellow.
“No, not yet. I asked Max about it, and he said he didn’t believe it would come.”
“He said that, did he?”
“Yes, he said that,” replied Dick, doubling the letter again, and replacing it behind the old looking-glass. “I dessay it’ll come, though, some day.”