“Beautiful. How many trout?”
“Not a brace,” said the doctor, drawing the basket round, and peering in at the hole disconsolately. “One miserable little fellow, that’s all. Chynoweth, I’m regularly out of luck.”
“Ah, yes,” said Chynoweth; “you always do seem to hold bad hands.”
“Wretched,” said the doctor, with a grim smile; “and the money comes in horribly.”
“Always does when you want it.”
“Always,” asserted the doctor, and there was another pause.
“By the way, Chynoweth,” he said at last, as the clerk went on polishing his slate, “I hear that Wheal Carnac was sold in London the other day.”
“Yes.”
“Who bought it?”
“Don’t know. We haven’t heard. Deposit’s paid, and all that sort of thing. That’s all we know at present.”