Satan turned and went below.
“Jude,” said Ratcliffe.
“What you want?” said Jude, without shifting her gaze.
“Suppose you had all the money off that old wreck, if the money is there, what would you do with it?”
“What’s the good of askin’ me things like that?” said Jude. “I’d precious soon do something with it!”
“No, you wouldn’t. You’d put it in the bank, and then your trouble would begin.”
“Which way?”
“Well, you’d have it in the bank or invested and it would bring you in, say, twenty thousand dollars a year; well, you couldn’t spend that on the dock-side, could you? You wouldn’t be able to spend it at all unless you gave up the Sarah and lived ashore in a fine house with a carriage and horses and servants, and to do that you’d have to become a lady—or gentleman,” hastily put in Ratcliffe, the figure on the keg suddenly threatening to turn on him. “You’d have to do that, and you’d have to do more than that: you’d have to learn all sorts of things.”
“Which sort?”
“Oh, lots. Can you write, Jude?”