“No, you don’t,” said Sam, with a look full of contempt at the shrunken, degraded man before him, who was receiving the punishment already of his misdeeds, and suffering more keenly than from any which could have been inflicted by the law.
“But how much do you want, my boy?” he faltered—“fifteen shillings?”
“I want two pounds,” said Sam coolly, “to pay my expenses. Perhaps I shall have to give some blackguard half-a-sovereign to get the papers for me, and if I come back with them all right, you’ll have to give me five pounds.”
“Five pounds!” gasped his father.
“Yes, dad; and if you make so much fuss about it I shan’t go unless you give me ten pounds.”
James Brandon looked in a ghastly way, which made his sickly face seem agonised, and he slowly drew out his purse and handed his son the money.
“When will you start?” he said.
“Now, directly,” said Sam, rising from his chair; and his father’s countenance brightened.
“Hah!” he exclaimed, “that’s very prompt and business-like of you, Sam. You’ll be careful though.” And he whispered some instructions.
“You leave me alone for that, dad,” said Sam. “I know what I’m about.”