ed with uplifted hand; "my English is bad.
It is--ah! bad. You shall look it over--my plan. It will strike your
sense. Next week I go to Italy. I take ze little Belloni. You will manage
all. I have in you, my friend, perfec' confidence. An Englishman, he is
honest. An Englishman and a Greek conjoined, zey beat ze world! It is
true, ma foi. For zat, I seek you, and not a countryman. A
Frenchman?--oh, no! A German?--not a bit! A Russian?--never! A
Yankee?--save me! I am a Greek--I take an Englishman."

"Well, well, you must leave me to think it over," said Mr. Pole,
pleasantly smoothed down. "As to honesty, that's a matter of course with
us: that's the mere footing we go upon. We don't plume ourselves upon
what's general, here. There is, I regret to say, a difference between us
and other nations. I believe it's partly their religion. They swindle us,
and pay their priests for absolution with our money. If you're a
double-dyed sinner, you can easily get yourself whitewashed over there.
Confound them! When that fellow sent no remittance last month, I told you
I suspected him. Who was, the shrewdest then? As for pluck, I never
failed in that yet. But, I will see a thing clear. The man who speculates
blindfold, is a fowl who walks into market to be plucked. Between being
plucked, and having pluck, you'll see a distinction when you know the
language better; but you must make use of your head, or the chances are
you won't be much of a difference,--eh? I'll think over your scheme. I'm
not a man to hesitate, if the calculations are sound. I'll look at the
papers here."

"My friend, you will decide before zat I go to Italy." said Mr. Pericles,
and presently took his leave.

When he was gone, Mr. Pole turned his chair to the table, and made an
attempt to inspect one of the papers deliberately. Having untied it, he
retied it with care, put it aside, marked 'immediate,' and read the
letter from Riga anew. This he tore into shreds, with animadversions on
the quality of the rags that had produced it, and opened the important
paper once more. He got to the end of a sentence or two, when his fingers
moved about for the letter; and then his mind conceived a necessity for
turning to the directory, for which he rang the bell. The great red book
was brought into his room by a youthful clerk, who waited by, while his
master, unaware of his presence, tracked a name with his forefinger. It
stopped at Pole, Samuel Bolton; and a lurking smile w