‘It wouldn’t do, Uncle Ned,’ said Gideon.
‘But you’re not mad enough,’ cried Mr Bloomfield, ‘to persist in trying to dispose of it yourself?’
‘There is no other path open to me,’ said Gideon.
‘It’s not common sense, and I will not hear of it,’ cried Mr Bloomfield. ‘I command you, positively, Gid, to desist from this criminal interference.’
‘Very well, then, I hand it over to you,’ said Gideon, ‘and you can do what you like with the dead body.’
‘God forbid!’ ejaculated the president of the Radical Club, ‘I’ll have nothing to do with it.’
‘Then you must allow me to do the best I can,’ returned his nephew. ‘Believe me, I have a distinct talent for this sort of difficulty.’
‘We might forward it to that pest-house, the Conservative Club,’ observed Mr Bloomfield. ‘It might damage them in the eyes of their constituents; and it could be profitably worked up in the local journal.’
‘If you see any political capital in the thing,’ said Gideon, ‘you may have it for me.’
‘No, no, Gid—no, no, I thought you might. I will have no hand in the thing. On reflection, it’s highly undesirable that either I or Miss Hazeltine should linger here. We might be observed,’ said the president, looking up and down the river; ‘and in my public position the consequences would be painful for the party. And, at any rate, it’s dinner-time.’