And because of his faith he was, conversationally, rather a pleasant man with whom to be connected in business. Let who else would, sing a poor song, he “never said die;” let who might be cross and changeable, faint-hearted and desponding, Mr. Black was always the same.
Always self-reliant, cheery, hopeful, certain of success, that sort of man who never meets an acquaintance with a long face; who is not affected by the weather, who shakes hands just as heartily if the rain be pouring down Heavens hard, as he would if it were the finest day in summer; who considers snow a joke, and frost an agreeable change; who is never down on his luck; whose barometer, according to his own showing, is always rising; with whom it is, at least, fair weather from January till December; who, if he do chance to get a heavy blow, is only staggered by it for the moment; who is not eternally complaining about his own health, or his wife’s health, or the sickness of his ten children, or the bad state of trade, or the difficulties of fighting through, but who always says, with a cheery nod—
“Quite well, thank you. Business? oh, capital; never had such a month—more work to do than I can get through. Wish I could cut myself up to be in a dozen places at once. All well with you? that’s right; good-day, good-day!”
To a man like this, it may readily be imagined, Arthur Dudley proved a perfect mine of wealth—a true God-send, as he reverently remarked to Mr. Bailey Crossenham.
When first he and Arthur started together in the new Company, Mr. Black informed the Brothers Crossenham that “he drew it mild with the Squire;” but soon, finding that gentleman believed every word he told him, the promoter grew less delicate, and would persuade his kinsman to accept three or four bills for him in the course of a week.
It was such a rare experience for Mr. Black to hold thoroughly good paper—paper concerning which no objection could be made, that he felt it would be quite a slighting of Providence not to enjoy that strange sensation thoroughly.
To allow a name like Dudley’s to waste its sweetness among the Hertfordshire fields, and never figure on stamped slips of foolscap in banks and discount offices, would have seemed to Mr. Black the merest quixotism.
Here was what he had always sighed for—a good name. Like the individual who would have given ten thousand pounds for a good character, because, on the strength of that character, he could have trebled that sum immediately, Mr. Black conceived that one good name must inevitably lead to more. Should he suffer this gift to lie unused—should he allow this talent to remain buried in a napkin? Never; a thousand times, never. And, accordingly, he employed Arthur’s name as freely as he might his own, which is saying a good deal; and Arthur rested satisfied.
Would not money turn in after Christmas. Were he and Mr. Black not to go shares? Would those thousands not be returning to him from the sale of the Lincoln’s Inn property? Was the Company not well thought of—well talked about? Had not Walter Hope—spite of his aunt’s remonstrances—added his name to the Direction, without a moment’s hesitation? Had he not said to Mrs. Walter Hope,—
“And the dividends shall be yours, my love?” an arrangement which met with that lady’s entire approval. Had Mr. Douglas Croft not remarked that Black was “a sly fox, but a devilish clever fellow—a fellow who could float anything, if he only took it into his head to do so?” Had he not tasted of the sweets of spending money freely—of spending without pausing first to consider, “Can I afford this expense?”