'MY DEAR SIR,—We regret to inform you of the sudden death of your uncle, Mr. Thomas Tyser, on the 10th inst. He left no will, and you, as the next of kin and the heir-at-law, are entitled to all his real and personal estate, which is, as you are doubtless aware, very large. According to our present estimate it will amount to at least half a million sterling, and as we have been his legal advisers for the last twenty years, and know all his affairs, we can assure you that, with proper management of certain undertakings at present in our hands, it may be much more than our estimate. In order that you may return at once, we enclose you a draft on the Union Bank of Australia for £200, and have instructed Captain Smith to give you your discharge, which he will of course do at once.
'We hope, as we have been so long in the confidence of Mr. Tyser, that you will see no reason to complain of our care for your interests.—We are, my dear Sir, your obedient servants,
THOMAS WIGGS & Co.'
'Holy Sailor!' said Geordie. And he stared aghast at a square piece of paper which he had reason to believe represented £200. 'Holy Sailor, what a pot o' money!' He gasped, and took another drink.
'I'm the owner of the Patriarch,' he said, and grasping all the letters and his £200 draft he rammed them down into the bottom of his inside breast-pocket. 'I'm the owner of—hic—the—hic—Patriarch.'
He came out of his corner and went to the bar.
'Gimme a drink, an expensive drink, one that'll cost five bob,' he demanded of the barman.
'You'd better have a bottle o' brandy,' said the barman.
'I wants the best.'
'This is Hennessy's forty-star brandy,' said the liar behind the bar. 'There's no better in the world.'