“Does he not?” quoth Oldbuck; “I do though, under his favour. Why, old Dr. H—n* told me, when I was in Edinburgh, that we should never find copper enough, judging from the specimens I showed him, to make a pair of sixpenny knee-buckles—and I cannot see that those samples on the table below differ much in quality.”
* Probably Dr. Hutton, the celebrated geologist.
“The learned doctor is not infallible, I presume?”
“No; but he is one of our first chemists; and this tramping philosopher of yours—this Dousterswivel—is, I have a notion, one, of those learned adventurers described by Kirchner, Artem habent sine arte, partem sine parte, quorum medium est mentiri, vita eorum mendicatum ire; that is to say, Miss Wardour”—
“It is unnecessary to translate,” said Miss Wardour—“I comprehend your general meaning; but I hope Mr. Dousterswivel will turn out a more trustworthy character.”
“I doubt it not a little,” said the Antiquary,—“and we are a foul way out if we cannot discover this infernal vein that he has prophesied about these two years.”
“You have no great interest in the matter, Mr. Oldbuck,” said the Baronet.
“Too much, too much, Sir Arthur; and yet, for the sake of my fair foe here, I would consent to lose it all so you had no more on the venture.”
There was a painful silence of a few moments, for Sir Arthur was too proud to acknowledge the downfall of his golden dreams, though he could no longer disguise to himself that such was likely to be the termination of the adventure. “I understand,” he at length said, “that the young gentleman, to whose gallantry and presence of mind we were so much indebted last night, has favoured me with a visit—I am distressed that I am unable to see him, or indeed any one, but an old friend like you, Mr. Oldbuck.”
A declination of the Antiquary’s stiff backbone acknowledged the preference.