When Arthur had finished the telegram, he threw it on the floor and stamped upon it, in his rage.
“What fools we are!” said he, in a voice that was rendered almost indistinct by intense passion. “Look here, old man! If you haven’t taken leave of your senses, sit down and tell me why it is that you are so worked up over this dispatch. Can’t you see that these four millions will never do us any good? They are not yours to keep. They are only willed to you ‘in trust,’ and must be given up to Bob as soon as he becomes of age. Who ever heard of such miserable luck?”
These words seemed to call Uncle Bob back to earth, and he instantly became himself again—cool, level-headed and calculating. “This accident and flood of fortune” had upset him for the moment, but now he was able to think about it and to gloat over it without the display of any emotion whatever.
“I know that I am to hold the property in trust. But don’t you see that I am to be Bob’s guardian? that I am to have the management of all these millions, and the revenues that may accrue from them?” said Uncle Bob, spreading his hands over the table, as if he were in reality, as he was in imagination, fingering his nephew’s big pile of gold and silver.
“How old is Bob now?” asked Arthur.
“About eighteen, I think.”
“Then we shall be rich for three years?”
“Yes, and a great deal can be accomplished in that time,” said his father, in a meaning tone. “Besides, there is the ‘generous sum’ which I shall keep to pay me for my services.”
“What would you call a generous sum?”
“Well, taking into consideration the amount of property involved, and the harassing responsibilities that will probably be thrown upon me, I should say half a million.”