"Here is the money," said George, counting out five sovereigns. "You had better see Robert at once: tell him to get away tomorrow. This is September, and fine weather may break any day."
Such a rush of philanthropy numbed the baker's faculties; but even in that semi-paralysed condition he remained a man of business. His fingers closed upon the coins, his feet carried him to the door; then he turned back to face this benefactor, who was shedding sovereigns in the reckless fashion of a tree casting its autumnal leaves. The old folk were to be provided with a meat tea; the Mudges were to be given a week at the seaside; the donor was to remain anonymous. Dyer in all his dreariness could not understand why Mr. Drake should desire to benefit his fellow creatures at all; but, more than that, he was actually proposing to do good stealthily. Where then was the advertisement?
"It's a lot of money, sir. You could buy a bit of land vor this," he said at last.
"I do not require any land," George answered.
"You don't get any profit so far as I can see," the baker proceeded.
"I am helping you to give Robert and Bessie the first real holiday they have ever known; I am enabling you to keep your promise; and I am enjoying the satisfaction of performing an unselfish action."
"'Tis there I'm beat. Why don't ye give the money to Robert, and tell 'en 'tis a present from me and you?"
"I will, if you like, and tell him your share is one shilling."
Dyer again moved towards the door; but still he hesitated.
"They could do it on less than five pounds, sir."