"You shut up about his being miserable," answered Billy, who, as we know, was a Roman Catholic. "He ain't half as miserable as the Archbishop of Canterbury. I wish we could meet him!"
"Or the Emperor of Germany," I suggested.
"Yes, he'd do. I'd ask him, and you bet he'd tell us. But"—and here Billy's manner became explosive—"I'll tell you what! I wish we could meet God! He's a jolly sight older than the Pope, or the Archbishop of Canterbury, or the Emperor of Germany. I believe he'd like to be asked more than any of them. And I'd ask him like a shot!"
"But he's not miserable," I interposed.
"How do you know he isn't—sometimes? It would do him good anyhow."
I was getting out of my depth. As a speculator I had none of the boldness which prompted the explosions of Billy, and an instinct of decency suggested a change of conversation.
"What shall we do with those half-sovereigns?" I asked.
"Hush!" said Billy, "they'll hear you."
"Who'll hear me?"
"Never mind who. They're listening, you bet. Never say 'half-sovereigns' again."