“Well, there’s one thing,” snapped Morris; “there’s my uncle again, my fraudulent trustee. He’s mine, anyway. And the tontine too. I claim the tontine; I claim it now. I believe Uncle Masterman’s dead.”
“I must put a stop to this nonsense,” said Michael, “and that for ever. You say too near the truth. In one sense your uncle is dead, and has been so long; but not in the sense of the tontine, which it is even on the cards he may yet live to win. Uncle Joseph saw him this morning; he will tell you he still lives, but his mind is in abeyance.”
“He did not know me,” said Joseph; to do him justice, not without emotion.
“So you’re out again there, Morris,” said John. “My eye! what a fool you’ve made of yourself!”
“And that was why you wouldn’t compromise,” said Morris.
“As for the absurd position in which you and Uncle Joseph have been making yourselves an exhibition,” resumed Michael, “it is more than time it came to an end. I have prepared a proper discharge in full, which you shall sign as a preliminary.”
“What!” cried Morris, “and lose my seven thousand eight hundred pounds, and the leather business, and the contingent interest, and get nothing? Thank you.”
“It’s like you to feel gratitude, Morris,” began Michael.
“O, I know it’s no good appealing to you, you sneering devil!” cried Morris. “But there’s a stranger present, I can’t think why, and I appeal to him. I was robbed of that money when I was an orphan, a mere child, at a commercial academy. Since then, I’ve never had a wish but to get back my own. You may hear a lot of stuff about me; and there’s no doubt at times I have been ill advised. But it’s the pathos of my situation; that’s what I want to show you.”
“Morris,” interrupted Michael, “I do wish you would let me add one point, for I think it will affect your judgment. It’s pathetic too—since that’s your taste in literature.”