“We’re damned rich,” he added. I shook hands all round a second time.
“I’ll go to sea no more—unless—there’s no sayin’—a private yacht, maybe—wi’ a small an’ handy auxiliary.”
“It’s not enough for that,” said Janet. “We’re fair rich—well-to-do, but no more. A new gown for church, and one for the theatre. We’ll have it made west.”
“How much is it?” I asked.
“Twenty-five thousand pounds.” I drew a long breath. “An’ I’ve been earnin’ twenty-five an’ twenty pound a month!”
The last words came away with a roar, as though the wide world was conspiring to beat him down.
“All this time I’m waiting,” I said. “I know nothing since last September. Was it left you?”
They laughed aloud together. “It was left,” said McPhee, choking. “Ou, ay, it was left. That’s vara good. Of course it was left. Janet, d’ ye note that? It was left. Now if you’d put that in your pamphlet it would have been vara jocose. It was left.” He slapped his thigh and roared till the wine quivered in the decanter.
The Scotch are a great people, but they are apt to hang over a joke too long, particularly when no one can see the point but themselves.
“When I rewrite my pamphlet I’ll put it in, McPhee. Only I must know something more first.”