“Oh!” interrupted Oliver, with a sigh, “Smith’s Wealth of what? That’s a book, I’m sure, I shall never be able to understand; is it not that great large book that Mr. Russell reads?”
“Yes.”
“But I shall never understand it.”
“Because it’s a large book?”
“No,” said Oliver, smiling, “but because I suppose it’s very difficult to understand.”
“Not what I’ve read of it: but I have only read passages here and there. That passage about lotteries, I think, you would understand, because it is so plainly written.”
“I’ll read it, then,” said Oliver, “and try; and in the meantime I’ll go and tell Holloway that I had rather not put into the lottery, till I know whether it’s right or not.”
Holloway flew into a violent passion with little Oliver when he went to return his lottery ticket. He abused and ridiculed Howard for his interference, and succeeded so well in raising a popular cry, that the moment Howard appeared on the playground, a general hiss, succeeded by a deep groan, was heard.—Howard recollected the oracle’s answer to Cicero, and was not dismayed by the voice of the multitude. Holloway threw down half-a-guinea, to pay Oliver, and muttered to himself, “I’ll make you remember this, Mr. Oliver.”
“I’ll give this half-guinea to the mulatto woman, and that’s much better than putting it into a lottery, Charles,” said the little boy; and, as soon as the business of the day was done, Oliver, Howard, and Mr. Russell, took their usual evening’s walk towards the gardener’s house.
“Ay, come in,” cried old Paul, “come in! God bless you all! I don’t know which is the best of you. I’ve been looking out of my door this quarter of an hour for ye,” said he, as soon as he saw them; “and I don’t know when I’ve been idle a quarter of an hour afore. But I’ve put on my best coat, though it’s not Sunday, and wife has treated her to a dish of tea, and she’s up and dressed—the mulatto woman, I mean—and quite hearty again. Walk in, walk in; it will do your hearts good to see her; she’s so grateful too, though she can’t speak good English, which is her only fault, poor soul; but we can’t be born what we like, or she would have been as good an Englishman as the best of us. Walk in, walk in.—And the chimney does not smoke, master, no more than I do; and the window opens too; and the paper’s up, and looks beautiful. God bless ye, God bless ye—walk in.” Old Paul, whilst he spoke, had stopped the way into the room; but at length he recollected that they could not walk in whilst he stood in the door-way, and he let them pass.