“I like to pay my debts,” he answered slowly, “and the workshop here is good. But there’s one advantage in Foregate Street, Susan: it’s nearer the workhouse!”
“Don’t talk nonsense before the children, Stephen. What’s the other letter?”
“I don’t know the hand,” he said, fingering it as he drank his tea. “I daresay it’s an offer to make me chief stuffer to the British Museum, or—Hallo!”
All eyes were fixed upon him; his teacup descended with a rattle into the saucer. The mother got up and came to look over his shoulder. And this was the letter:—
London, April 15, 1901.
Sir,—I learn from my friend Mr. Scotton of Eaton Place that you supplied him a year ago with a full clutch of British Kite’s eggs. I hope you will be able to do the same for me this year, as you know where they are to be obtained. I have in my cabinet full clutches of nearly all the British-breeding birds of prey, but the Kite is now so rare that I had despaired of adding its eggs to my collection till my friend gave me your address. I am ready to offer you twenty-five guineas for a clutch properly authenticated as British, and if you should be able to get me a bird as well I will give you ten guineas more, and employ you to set it up. I trust this offer will be satisfactory to you.
Yours truly,
William Gatherum.
“Satisfactory! I should think so,” cried the eldest son.
“Satisfactory! Why, you’ll get fifty guineas, if you ask for them, Stephen,” said the excited mother.