“Wine be damned! The money, my boy, the money! Scawthorne, I’m not a mean chap. As sure as you and me stand here, you shall have—you shall have a hundred pounds! I mean it; dash me, I mean it! You’ve been devilish useful to me; and what’s more—I haven’t done with you yet. Do you twig, old boy?”
“You mean that a confidential agent in England, unsuspected, may be needed?”
“Shouldn’t wonder if I do.”
“Can’t be managed under double the money, my good sir,” observed Scawthorne, with unmistakable seriousness. “Worth your while, I promise you. Have another glass. Fair commission. Think it over.”
“Look here! I shall have to make the girl an allowance.”
“There’s the filter-works. Don’t be stingey.”
Joseph was growing very red in the face. He drank glass after glass; he flung his arms about; he capered.
“Damn me if you shall call me that, Scaw! Two hundred it shall be. But what was the old cove up to? Why did he destroy the other will? What would the new one have been?”
