“Who’s talkin’ of seven thousand dollars?” asked a familiar voice, as Mr. Fox entered the room.
“Harry Vane says he’s worth seven thousand dollars!” exclaimed Joel, in a tone made up of amazement, jealousy, and wonder.
“Is that true?” asked John Fox, in equal amazement.
“Yes, Mr. Fox.”
“But how on ’arth——”
Then Harry gave a full explanation, with which I don’t propose to trouble the reader, as it would be a twice-told tale.
“Some folks seem born to luck!” said Mr. Fox furiously, when Harry had completed his story. “Joel may work and toil all his life, and he won’t get no seven thousand dollars. It seems hard!”
John Fox had been much impressed by Harry’s luck, and his avaricious soul was busying itself with some scheme for turning it to his personal advantage.
“I’m glad you’ve been so lucky, Harry,” he said, with affected cordiality. “It beats all, I must say. I’ve no doubt you are ready now to carry out your dear father’s dyin’ wish.”
“What was that, Mr. Fox?”