“Poor Harry! Good job he is poor. What’s the good of being rich for thieves to break through and steal?”
“Ah! what indeed!” said his brother sadly.
“Look at Van Heldre, knocked on the head and going to die.”
“Uncle!”
“Well, I dare say he will, and be at rest. Knocked on the head, and robbed of five hundred pounds. My money, every penny.”
“Yours, Luke?” said his brother, pointing at him with the glass rod.
“Thanks, no, George; give it to the sea-anemone. I don’t like raw winkle.”
“But you said that money was yours?”
“Yes; a deposit; all in new crisp Bank of England notes, Harry. Taking care of it for me till I got a fresh investment.”
“You surprise me, Luke.”