“You hold on,” he said, attributing it to nervousness caused by Uncle. Paul’s attitude—“you hold on, Rumsey, and don’t you be tempted at any price to sell. I warrant, my dear fellow, that you’ve made by that one stroke a handsome provision for your wife, more than you could have made by doctoring the whole county.”
“Then why don’t you invest?” snarled Uncle Paul.
“Because I’ve got no money,” said Geoffrey, coolly. “Why don’t you, who have?”
“Because I’m not quite such an old fool as you think.”
The doctor warmed up again under the sunshine of Geoffrey’s cheery ways, and soon after they were walking down towards the cliff, the doctor thanking Geoffrey again heartily as they parted, the one to make his rounds, the other to go to the busy mine.
Geoffrey had not gone half-way before he met old Prawle, coming direct from Wheal Carnac.
“Hallo, old man!” he cried. “How’s poor mother? By Jove, I must come and see the dear old lady again.”
“Better—better,” said Prawle, hastily.
“That’s well; and Miss Bessie?”
“Yes, yes, quite well,” said the old man, hastily. “I want to see you.”