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For you muddled with books and pictures, an'

china an'etchin's an' fans, And your rooms at college was beastly—more like

a whore's than a man'sTill you married that thin-flanked woman, as

white and as stale as a bone, And she gave you your social nonsense; but

where's that kid o' your own? I've seen your carriages blocking the half of the

Cromwell Road, But never the doctor's brougham to help the

missus unload. (So there isn't even a grandchild, an' the Gloster

family's done.) Not like your mother, she isn't. She carried her

freight each run. But they died, the pore little beggars! At sea she

had 'em—they died. Only you, an' you stood it; you haven't stood

much besideWeak, a liar, and idle, and mean as a collier's

whelp Nosing for scraps in the galley. No help-my son

was no help! So he gets three 'undred thousand, in trust and

the interest paid.

I wouldn't give it you, Dickie-you see, I made it

in trade. You're saved from soiling your fingers, and if you

have no child, It all comes back to the business. Gad, won't

your wife be wild! Calls and calls in her carriage, her 'andkerchief up

to 'er eye: “Daddy! dear daddy's dyin'!” and doing her

best to cry. Grateful? Oh, yes, I'm grateful, but keep 'er away

from here. Your mother 'ud never ha' stood’er, and, anyhow,

women are queer. ... There's women will say I've married a second time.

Not quite! But give pore Aggie a hundred, and tell her your

lawyers'll fight. She was the best o' the boiling-you'll meet her

before it ends; I'm in for a row with the mother—I'll leave you

settle my friends: For a man he must go with a woman, which

women don't understandOr the sort that say they can see it they aren't the

marrying brand.

But I wanted to speak o' your mother that's Lady

Gloster still. I'm going to up and see her, without it's hurt

ing the will. Here! Take your hand off the bell-pull. Five

thousand's waiting for you, If you'll only listen a minute, and do as I bid

you do. They'll try to prove me a loony, and, if you

bungle, they can; And I've only you to trust to! (O God, why

ain't he a man ?) There's some waste money on marbles, the same

as McCullough tried— Marbles and mausoleums—but I call that sinful


There's some ship bodies for burial—we've carried

'em, soldered and packed; Down in their wills they wrote it, and nobody

called them cracked. But me—I've too much money, and people might.

. . . All my fault: It come o' hoping for grandsons and buying that

Wokin' vault. I'm sick oʻthe 'ole dam' business; I'm going back

where I came.

Dick, you're the son o' my body, and you'll take

charge o' the same! I'm going to lie by your mother, ten thousand mile

away, And they'll want to send me to Woking; and that's

where you'll earn your pay. I've thought it out on the quiet, the same as it

ought to be doneQuiet, and decent, and proper-an' here's your

orders, my son. You know the Line? You don't, though. You

write to the Board, and tell Your father's death has upset you an' you're goin'

to cruise for a spell, An' you'd like the Mary Gloster-I've held her

ready for this They'll put her in working order an' you'll take

her out as she is. Yes, it was money idle when I patched her and put

her aside (Thank God, I can pay for my fancies !)—the boat

where your mother died, By the Little Paternosters, as you come to the

Union Bank, We dropped her—I think I told you—and I pricked

it off where she sank.

[Tiny she looked on the grating—that oily, treacly

sea-] Hundred and eighteen East, remember, and South

just three. Easy bearings to carry-three South—three to the

dot; But I gave McAndrews a copy in case of dying—or

not. And so you'll write to McAndrews, he's Chief of

the Maori Line; They'll give him leave, if you ask 'em and say it's

business o' mine. I built three boats for the Maoris, an' very well

pleased they were, An' I've known Mac since the Fifties, and Mac knew

me—and her. After the first stroke warned me I sent him the

money to keep Against the time you'd claim it, committin' your

dad to the deep; For you are the son o'my body, and Mac was my

oldest friend, I've never asked 'im to dinner, but he'll see it out

to the end. Stiff-necked Glasgow beggar, l've heard he's

prayed for my soul,

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