"How much money have you got, father?" she promptly asked, as they went down the street,
"Sixty pounds, my dear."
"Law! that ain't much," said Mary, as if she had rolled in guineas all her life.
"Well, it isn't," he replied candidly, and exactly in the same spirit; for if there is a thing people promptly get used to, it is money.
Mary had always been her father's confidante; he now opened his whole heart to her, and was thereby much relieved. To his great satisfaction, Mary condescended to approve almost without restriction, all he had done. She accompanied him over the house and shop—thought "the whole concern rather dirty," but kindly added, "that when it was cleaned up a bit, it would do;" and finally gave it as her opinion, "that there wasn't a better position in the whole neighbourhood."
"Of course there ain't," said Mr. Jones, sitting down on the counter. "The goodwives must either buy from me, or walk a mile. Now it stands to reason that, rather than walk a mile, with babies crying at home, and husbands growling—it stands to reason, I say, that they'll buy from me. Don't it, Mary?"
"Of course it does."
"Well, that ain't all. You see I know something of business. The interest of capital in business ranges from ten to a hundred per cent according to luck; now I am lucky being alone, so we'll say fifty per cent, which is moderate, ain't it, Mary?"
"Of course it is," replied that infallible authority.
"Well then: capital, sixty pounds; interest, fifty per cent. Why, in no time, like, I shall double my capital; and when it's doubled, I shall double it again—and so I'll go on doubling and doubling until I'm tired —and then we'll stop. Won't we, Mary?"