“And what does he say? Do you know?”
“Yes; the old man reads them to me.”
“Fudge! Flams to rig the market. Chatter for you to spread on the Stock Exchange and make the shares go up.”
“No,” said Jessop quietly, as he sat on a corner of the lawyer’s table, and swung his cane and one leg to and fro. “The dad and I don’t hit it, and we’ve had more quarrels than I can count about money and—other little matters; but he’s always straightforward with me over business, and I’d trust his word sooner than any man’s in London.”
“Good son.”
“Ah! you needn’t sneer; you’d only be too glad to get his name to a bit of paper.”
“True, O king! He is a model that way. But then he is pretty warm, and can afford to lose.”
“Yes; but it would be the same if he were hard up. The old man’s dead square.”
“Then you believe your brother’s reports are all that are read to you?”
“Implicitly.”