“What's money!” said Anthony.
The farmer immediately resumed his this-worldliness:
“Well, it's fine to go about asking us poor devils to answer ye that,” he said, and chuckled, conceiving that he had nailed Anthony down to a partial confession of his ownership of some worldly goods.
“What do you call having money?” observed the latter, clearly in the trap. “Fifty thousand?”
“Whew!” went the farmer, as at a big draught of powerful stuff.
“Ten thousand?”
Mr. Fleming took this second gulp almost contemptuously, but still kindly.
“Come,” quoth Anthony, “ten thousand's not so mean, you know. You're a gentleman on ten thousand. So, on five. I'll tell ye, many a gentleman'd be glad to own it. Lor' bless you! But, you know nothing of the world, brother William John. Some of 'em haven't one—ain't so rich as you!”
“Or you, brother Tony?” The farmer made a grasp at his will-o'-the-wisp.
“Oh! me!” Anthony sniggered. “I'm a scraper of odds and ends. I pick up things in the gutter. Mind you, those Jews ain't such fools, though a curse is on 'em, to wander forth. They know the meaning of the multiplication table. They can turn fractions into whole numbers. No; I'm not to be compared to gentlemen. My property's my respectability. I said that at the beginning, and I say it now. But, I'll tell you what, brother William John, it's an emotion when you've got bags of thousands of pounds in your arms.”