“How?” asked Deaker, who was quite as able a tactician as his son; and who, in fact, had contrived to put himself so completely! in possession of the political influence of the county as to be able to return any one he wished. “How is it to be done? Tell me that?”
“I have understood from George Gamble, Lord Cumber's own man, that he wants money.”
“Tut,” replied Deaker, who now forgot a great deal of his swearing, and applied himself to the subject, with all the coolness and ability of a thorough man of business.
“Tut, Val, is that your news? When was he ever otherwise? Come to the point; the thing's desirable—but how can it be done?”
“I think it can; but it must be by very nice handling indeed.”
“Well—your nice handling then?”
“The truth is, that Hickman, I suspect, is almost sick of the agency—thanks to Lord Cumber's extravagance, and an occasional bit of blister which I, through the tenantry, lay on him at home. Cumber, you know, is an unsteady scoundrel, and in the ordinary I transactions of life, has no fixed principle, for he is possessed of little honor, and I am afraid not much honesty.”
“Oh murder! this from Val the Vulture! Let me look at you! Did M'Slime bite you? or have you turned Methodist? Holy Jupiter, what a sermon! Curse your beak, sir; go on, and no preaching.”
“Not much honesty as I said. Now, sir, if you, who have him doubly in your power—first, by the mortgage; and, secondly, as his political godfather, who can either put him in, or keep him out of the country—if you were to write him a friendly, confidential letter, in which, observe, you are about to finally arrange your affairs; and you are sorry—quite sorry—but the truth is, something must be done about the mortgage—you are very sorry—mark—but you are old, and cannot leave your property in an unsettled state. Just touch that part of it so—”
“Yes—touch and go.”