“Gammon,” said Pratt, shortly. “It’s very well to talk about liking to be poor, and no one knows what poverty is better than I; but I like money as well as most men. I used to eat chaff, Dick; but I like corn, and wine, and oil, and honey better. Now, look here, Dick, once for all—if you want money, and don’t come to me for it, you are no true friend.”
“Franky,” said Richard, turning away his face, “if ever I want money, I’ll come to you and ask for it. As matters are, I have always a few shillings to spare.”
As he spoke, he got up hastily, lit a pipe, and began to smoke; while Mrs Fiddison in the next room, heaved a sigh, took off her shoes, and went on tiptoe through the little house, opening every door and window, after carefully covering up all her widows’ caps.
“There is one thing about noise,” she said to herself, “it don’t make the millinery smell.”
“I knocked off a few days ago,” said Frank, from out of a cloud.
“You are working too hard,” said Richard, anxiously.
“’Bliged to,” said Pratt. “Took a change—ran down to Cornwall.”
Richard started slightly, and smoked hard.
“Thought I’d have a look at the old place, Dick—see how matters were going on.”
Silence on the part of Richard, and Pratt breathed more freely; for he had expected to be stopped.