Charles. Couldn't possibly say without knowing all the facts. It's a Limited Company, I suppose?
Mr. T. I—I don't know, Charles, but I can show you the official document which—ah—happens to be in my hands. I'm afraid I didn't examine it very carefully—I was too upset. (He goes to his secrétaire, and returns with a paper, which he offers for Charles's inspection.) You won't mind my covering up the name? My—my friend wouldn't care for it to be seen—I'm sure.
Charles (glances at the top of the paper, and roars with laughter). I say, Uncle, your friend must be a jolly old juggins!
Mr. T. (miserably). I don't think he could be described as jolly just now, Charles.
Charles. No, but I mean, not all there, you know—trifle weak in the upper story.
Mr. T. (with dignity). He never professed to be a man of business, Charles, any more than myself, and his inexperience was shamefully abused—most shamefully!
Charles. Abused! But look here, Uncle, do you mean to say you don't see that this is a dividend warrant!
Mr. T. I believe that is what they call it. And—and is he bound to send them a cheque for it at once, Charles?
Charles. Send them a cheque? Great Scott! Why it is a cheque! They're paying him. It's the half-yearly dividend on his five hundred, at the rate of seventy per cent. And he was going to——Oh, Lord!