“I’ve not told her,” said Mr. Jacobson, listening—“she is gone on into the kitchen. How much is it that you’ve left owing in London, Sam?”
Sam nearly choked. He did not perceive this was just a random shot: he was wondering whether magic had been at work.
“Left owing in London?” stammered he.
“That’s what I asked. How much? And I mean to know. ’Twon’t be of any use your fencing about the bush. Come! tell it in a lump.”
“Fifty pounds would cover it all, sir,” said Sam, driven by desperation into the avowal.
“I want the truth, Sam.”
“That is the truth, uncle, I put it all down in a list before leaving London; it comes to just under fifty pounds.”
“How could you be so wicked as to contract it?”
“There has not been much wickedness about it,” said Sam, miserably, “indeed there hasn’t. One gets drawn into expenses unconsciously in the most extraordinary manner up in London. Uncle Jacobson, you may believe me or not, when I say that until I added it up, I did not think it amounted to twenty pounds in all.”