By this time they were seated opposite to each other, in two comfortable chairs, before a cheerful fire. The minister’s half-joking question touched so closely the trouble just then upon “Cobbler” Horn’s mind, that he took it quite seriously, and returned a very grave reply.
“The ‘millions,’ sir, are not going fast enough; in fact, they go very slowly indeed. And, to make a clean breast of it, that is what has brought me here this morning.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Durnford, with deep interest.
“But, sir,” added “Cobbler” Horn, half-rising, and putting out his hand, “don’t let me hinder you. I can come another time, if you are busy just now.”
“Don’t speak of such a thing, my dear friend!” cried the minister, putting out his hand in turn. “Keep your seat. I’m never busy on a Monday morning—if I can help it. I am always ready, between the hours of nine and one on Monday, for any innocent diversion that may come in my way. I keep what is called ‘Saint Monday’—at least in the morning. If I am disturbed on any other morning, I—well, I don’t like it. But any reasonable person who finds me at home on a Monday morning—against which, I must admit, the chances are strong, for I frequently go off on some harmless jaunt—is quite welcome to me for that time.”
“I had an idea of that, sir,” responded “Cobbler” Horn.
“Ah, you are a most considerate man! But now, about the millions?”
“The Golden Shoemaker” smiled.
“Not ‘millions,’ sir—hardly one million yet—indeed a great deal less now, actually in my own hands; though I am seriously afraid of what it may become. All my investments are turning out so well, that the money is coming in much faster than I can get rid of it! It’s positively dreadful! I shall have to increase my givings very largely in some way.”
The minister held up his hands in mock astonishment; and there was a twinkle of honest pleasure in his keen, grey eyes.