“Oh, I’m worth a little more than twelve hundred pounds,” said Tom, with a smile. “Why, only the other week I cleared a thousand by one little stroke in cotton.”
“Well done, young one,” said the Squire, heartily. “You are not such a fool as you look. And now take an old man’s advice. Don’t speculate any more. Fortune has given you one little slice of her cake. Don’t tempt her again. Be content with what you’ve got, and speculate no more.”
“At any rate, I won’t forget your advice, sir,” said Tom. “I wonder,” he added to himself, “what he would think and say if he knew that it was by speculation, pure and simple, that I earn my bread and cheese.”
“And so you would really like to buy Knockley Holt, eh?”
“I should indeed, if you are determined to sell it.”
“Oh, I shall sell it, sure enough. But may I ask what you intend to do with it when you have got it?”
“Ah, sir, that is just one of those questions which you must not ask me,” said Tom, laughingly. “If I buy it, it will be entirely on speculation. It may turn out a dismal failure: it may prove to be a big success.”
“Well, well, that will be your look out,” said the Squire, good-naturedly. “But, Bristow, it’s not worth twelve hundred pounds, nor anything like that sum.”
“I think it is, sir—at least to me, and I am quite prepared to pay that amount for it.”
“I only gave nine fifty for it; and I thought that if I could get a clear thousand I should have every reason to be perfectly satisfied.”