“Hurry? Hurry of the Bristol?” he muttered. “A trifle, I know.”
I bethought me, “It won’t be ten pounds after all, perhaps.”
“Oh, yes, here I have it. Three hundred pounds, Mr Hurry! You can draw it whenever you like: our friend here will assure me of your identity.”
I couldn’t help throwing up my cap for joy.
“Well, I am rich,” I exclaimed; “like that old fellow Croesus I once read of at school. Thank you, sir—thank you. Hurrah, hurrah!” I burst out into a loud fit of laughter.
At first Mr Martin smiled at my joy, but he soon began to look grave, as did the agent, for they perceived that I was over-excited—that, in truth, the admiral’s good wine and my unexpected good fortune, acting on a frame shattered by sickness, had upset me, and they seemed to think that there was every probability of a return of my fever.
“I am very glad to hear that you have got this little sum. It will help to supply you with an outfit,” observed Mr Martin, wishing to calm me down a little.
“Enough for an outfit!—enough to fit out a prince or found a kingdom,” I exclaimed vehemently. “Ha, ha, ha!”
“Well, never mind that just now,” said my kind friend; “just get into my barouche, and come along to my house in the meantime. To-morrow we will talk about these matters.”
I made no resistance, and, getting into his carriage, we soon reached his cool and comfortable mansion in the neighbourhood of Kingston. I was immediately put to bed, and off I went into a sleep so sound that an earthquake or an hurricane would scarcely have awoke me.