“No, no; in France, near Marseilles.”
“That’s awkward; a long way off.”
“Go on,” said Pradelle with his eyes, as he glanced at Harry.
“No good. Making fun of us,” said Harry’s return look; and the old man’s eyes glistened.
“Hundred pounds. Speculation, of course?”
“Hardly fair to call it speculation, it is so safe,” said Pradelle, in face of a frown from his friend.
“Hum! A hundred pounds—a hundred pounds,” said Uncle Luke thoughtfully. “It’s a good deal of money.”
“Oh, dear me, no, sir,” said Pradelle. “In business matters a mere trifle.”
“Ah! you see I’m not a business man. Why don’t you lend it to my nephew, Mr Pradelle?”
“I—I’m—well—er—really, I—The fact is, sir, every shilling I have is locked up.”