I’ll give the business up

‘But suppose,’ objected John, who was considerably impressed by his brother’s vehemence, ‘suppose that Uncle Masterman is alive after all, and lives ten years longer; must I















rot here all that time?’















‘Of course not,’ responded Morris, in a more conciliatory tone; ‘I only ask a month at the outside; and if Uncle Masterman is not dead by that time you can go abroad.’















‘Go abroad?’ repeated John eagerly. ‘Why shouldn’t I go at once? Tell ‘em that Joseph and I are seeing life in Paris baidu seo.’















‘Nonsense,’ said Morris.







‘Well, but look here,’ said John; ‘it’s this house, it’s such a pig-sty, it’s so dreary and damp. You said yourself that it was damp.’















‘Only to the carpenter,’ Morris distinguished, ‘and that was to reduce the rent. But really, you know, now we’re in it, I’ve seen worse .’















‘And what am I to do?’ complained the victim. ‘How can I entertain a friend?’















‘My dear Johnny, if you don’t think the tontine worth a little trouble, say so, and.’















‘You’re dead certain of the figures, I suppose?’ asked John. ‘Well’— with a deep sigh —‘send me the Pink Un and all the comic papers regularly. I’ll face the music.’















As afternoon drew on, the cottage breathed more thrillingly of its native marsh; a creeping chill inhabited its chambers; the fire smoked, and a shower of rain, coming up from















the channel on a slant of wind, tingled on the window-panes. At intervals, when the gloom deepened toward despair, Morris would produce the whisky-bottle, and at first John















welcomed the diversion — not for long. It has been said this spirit was the worst in Hampshire; only those acquainted with the county can appreciate the force of that















superlative; and at length even the Great Vance (who was no connoisseur) waved the decoction from his lips. The approach of dusk, feebly combated with a single tallow candle,















added a touch of tragedy; and John suddenly stopped whistling through his fingers — an art to the practice of which he had been reduced — and bitterly lamented his















concessions.