"Sure enough; there it is, in black and white.—What do you think of
Micawber?"
"I think," said Greenleaf, with manly tears in his eyes, "that you are the artfullest, craftiest, hugger-muggering, dear old rascal that ever lived. Now let me embrace you in good earnest. Oh, Easelmann, this is too much! Here is Alice—mine! Here is Europe, that I have looked at as I would heaven, beyond reach in this life! Now we will go to work; and let Cuyp, Claude, and the rest of them, look out for their laurels!"
"Softly, my boy; you squeeze like a cider-press. But how came the old miser to give you this?"
"My father was his partner; he was thought to be worth a handsome sum while he lived,—but at his death, though Bullion and another junior went on with the business, there was nothing left for us. My mother died poor. I am the only child living. This, I suppose, is the return for the property that Bullion wrongfully detained,—with compound interest, too, I should say. Let us not speak ill of the dead. He has made restitution and squared the books; I hope the correction has been made above."
"How lucky for you that Bullion was your banker! Suppose you had grown up with the expectation of having this money, what would you have been good for? You would have run all to patent-leather boots, silky moustaches, and black-tan terriers. Your struggles have developed your muscles, metaphorically speaking, and made a man of you."
"Two sides to that question. It is true, luxury might have spoiled me, for I am accessible to such influences; but, on the other hand, I should have escaped some painful things. No one who has not been poor can understand me, can know the wounds which a sensitive man must receive as he is working his way up in the world,—wounds that leave lasting scars, too. I am conscious of certain feelings, most discreditable, if I were to avow them, which have been cultivated in me, and which will probably cling to me all my days. What I have gained in hardiness I have gained as the smith gains his strength, at the expense of symmetry, sensibility, and grace."
"Nonsense, you mimosa! Don't curl up your leaves before you are touched."
"But if I am a sensitive-plant, as you say, I can't help it; if I were a burdock, I might."
"You'll get over that. By-the-by, you may as well tell Alice. I know you will be uneasy; go, go,—but come back soon. It is jolly that she accepted you poor; if the report had got abroad, you might have thought she was influenced by golden reasons."
"That's because you don't know her, my cynical friend. She is incapable of mercenary motives."