"Heavy," replied the broker. "There's been a forced sale or two, but they won't go up."
"I should think not," said Scripio. "Have you bought me these forty Jamaicas?"
I started at the prodigality of the order. "Heaven and earth!" thought I, "can this uncle of mine be a kind of occidental Aladdin? After this, I should not be surprised to hear him bid for Texas and the Oregon territory!"
"I've got them," said the broker quietly; "they are going up without steam. Have you got any Biggleswades?"
"Yes," said my uncle, "what about them? No screw loose, eh? Sure to pass the standing orders, I hope?"
"All right," said the broker, "hold for the bill, and you'll make a good thing of it."
"Well, then," said my uncle, "that's all, and we're off. I'll write you from London about other matters. Good-day,"—and we sallied into the street.
"Fred, you dog!" said Mr Dodger in high glee, "you've put your teeth into it this time."
"Into what, sir?" asked I, very innocently. "If you mean luncheon, I'm sure I should have no objections."
"Oh come! none of that humbug. I mean the Biggleswades. There hasn't been such a catch in Britain since the opening of the Coal-hill Junction."