you get your pay?"

"What should I do with it, my duck? I couldn't lend it to anybody safer.
If I deposit, the bank is as likely to fail as he. As long as he has the
whole capital to swing, he will make the more for us both."

"I would rather have the money."

"That shows how little you know about it."

"I know, if you had it, and didn't lend it nor speculate with it, you
couldn't lose it."

"Now, ducky, don't interfere. You take care of babies nicely. Let me
manage my own affairs."

"You always treat me like a child that has to be petted with
sugar-plums."

"That's because you are a child. What the devil does a woman know about
business?"

The "ducky" cried a little, and was quite sure that John would go on and
risk what he had, till he lost all.

"Little woman, none of your blubbering! It annoys me. Am I to be
harassed by business all day, and have no peace when I come home?"

He settled himself to read the papers, once more, and the wife picked up
the fretful, puny infant, and retreated to the kitchen, where she could
indulge her sorrow without rebuke or interruption.

Presently, Bullion entered, though not unexpected; for he had given
Fletcher an intimation, that, in order to have a private interview, he
would endeavor to see him at home.

"Nice little box," said the capitalist, looking around. "Any babies?"

"One," said Fletcher.

"Boy or girl?"

"A girl."

"Bad. Girls always an expense. Dress, piano, parties, and d--d nonsense.
Boys, you put 'em into harness and work 'em till they're willing to
_eat_ their wild oats; he! he!"

The eyebrow flourished over the jocose idea; the stony eye glittered a
moment like a revolving light, and then relapsed into darkness.

"However, I have but one, and I think I can make her comfortable."

"Yes, my boy, quite comfortable. Let me see, I owe you ten thousand. How
does the new account stand?"

"Here are the figures, taken from Tonsor's book," said Fletcher.
"Seventy-nine thousand eight hundred and forty-three. Ten per cent. to
me is seven thousand nine hundred and eighty-four."

"A big pile of money, Fletcher."

"Yours, you mean? Yes, seventy thousand and odd is a big pile."

"Yours,--I meant yours."

"Why, yes," replied Fletcher, indifferently, "a good fair sum, for a man
that hadn't any before."

"Don't you think, now, Fletcher, that the ten thousand pays you for all
you've done? Isn't it enough for a month or two's work?"

"I think I am paid