Captain Crowle made answer, speaking in the name of the society, "Sir, we await your pleasure."
"My news, gentlemen, is of a startling character. I will epitomise or abbreviate it. In a word, therefore, we are all about to become rich."
Everybody sat upright. Rich? all to become rich? My father, who was the master of the Grammar school, and the curate of St. Nicholas, shook their heads like Thomas the Doubter.
"All you who have houses or property in this town: all who are concerned in the trade of the town: all who direct the industries of the people—or take care of the health of the residents—will become, I say, rich." My father and the curate who were not included within these limits, again shook their heads expressively but kept silence. Nobody, of course, expects the master of the Grammar school, or a curate, to become rich.
"We await your pleasure, sir," the captain repeated.
"Rich! you said that we were all to become rich," murmured the mayor, who was supposed to be in doubtful circumstances. "If that were true——"
"I proceed to my narrative." The doctor pulled out a pocketbook from which he extracted a letter. "I have received," he went on, "a letter from a townsman—the young man named Samuel Semple—Samuel Semple," he repeated with emphasis, because a look of disappointment fell upon every face.
"Sam Semple," growled the captain; "once I broke my stick across his back." He did not, however, explain why he had done so. "I wish I had broken two. What has Sam Semple to do with the prosperity of the town?"
"You shall hear," said the doctor.
"He would bring a book of profane verse to church instead of the Common Prayer," said the vicar.