o' money, Bill."

"But you ain't got no money," said his bewildered friend.

Mr. Blows turned and eyed him haughtily; then he confronted the staring
president again.

"I've come for--my money," he said, impressively-- "one 'under-eighty
pounds."

"But look 'ere," said the scandalised Bill, tugging at his sleeve; "you
ain't dead, Jack."

"You don't understan'," said Mr. Blows, impatiently. "They know wharri
mean; one 'undereighty pounds. They want to buy me a tombstone, an' I
don't want it. I want the money. Here, stop it! _Dye hear?_" The words
were wrung from him by the action of the president, who, after eyeing him
doubtfully during his remarks, suddenly prodded him with the butt-end of
one of the property spears which leaned against his chair. The solidity
of Mr. Blows was unmistakable, and with a sudden resumption of dignity
the official seated himself and called for silence.

"I'm sorry to say there's been a bit of a mistake made," he said, slowly,
"but I'm glad to say that Mr. Blows has come back to support his wife and
family with the sweat of his own brow. Only a pound or two of the money
so kindly subscribed has been spent, and the remainder will be handed
back to the subscribers."

"Here," said the incensed Mr. Blows, "listen me."

"Take him away," said the president, with great dignity. "Clear the
room. Strangers outside."

Two of the members approached Mr. Blows and, placing their hands on his
shoulders, requested him to withdraw. He went at last, the centre of a
dozen panting men, and becoming wedged on the narrow staircase, spoke
fluently on such widely differing subjects as the rights of man and the
shape of the president's nose.

He finished his remarks in the street, but, becoming aware at last of a
strange lack of sympathy on the part of his audience, he shook off the
arm of the faithful Mr. Carter and stalked moodily home.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Spirit of Avarice, by W.W. Jacobs

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