Mr Speck.—I suppose you mean, rather, as to the railways: great fortunes will be made there, sir; but still I think that our speculations here will$mdash;
Vivian.—I beg pardon for interrupting you, sir; but I thought, in the last papers, that there seemed something hostile in the temper of the French. No chance of a war?
Major MacBlarney.—Is it the wars you'd be after, young gintleman? If me interest at the Horse Guards can avail you, bedad! you'd make a proud man of Major MacBlarney.
Mr Bullion, (authoritatively.)—No, sir, we won't have a war: the capitalists of Europe and Australia won't have it. The Rothschilds, and a few others that shall be nameless, have only got to do this, sir—(Mr Bullion buttons up his pockets)—and we'll do it too; and then what becomes of your war, sir? (Mr Bullion snaps his pipe in the vehemence with which he brings his hand on the table, turns round the green spectacles, and takes up Mr Speck's pipe, which that gentlemen had laid aside in an unguarded moment.)
Vivian.—But the campaign in India?
Major MacBlarney.—Oh!—and if its the Ingees you'd$mdash;
Bullion, (refilling Speck's pipe from Guy Bolding's exclusive tobacco-pouch, and interrupting the Major.)—India—that's another matter: I don't object to that! War there—rather good for the money market than otherwise!
Vivian.—What news there, then?
Bullion.—Don't know—haven't got India stock.
Mr Speck.—Nor I either. The day for India is over: this is our India now. (Misses his tobacco-pipe; sees it in Bullion's mouth, and stares aghast!—NB.—The pipe is not a clay dodeen, but a small meerschaum—irreplaceable in Bushland.)