Coulson had done the sum quicker, but was too much disheartened by the amount to speak.

‘And the goodwill?’ asked the pitiless John.  ’What dost thee set that at?’

’I think, brother, that that would depend on who came forward with the purchase-money of the stock and fixtures.  To some folks we might make it sit easy, if they were known to us, and those as we wished well to.  If Philip and William here, for instance, said they’d like to purchase the business, I reckon thee and me would not ask ’em so much as we should ask Millers’ (Millers was an upstart petty rival shop at the end of the bridge in the New Town).

‘I wish Philip and William was to come after us,’ said John.  ’But that’s out of the question,’ he continued, knowing all the while that, far from being out of the question, it was the very question, and that it was as good as settled at this very time.

No one spoke.  Then Jeremiah went on: 

‘It’s out of the question, I reckon?’

He looked at the two young men.  Coulson shook his head.  Philip more bravely said,—­

’I have fifty-three pounds seven and fourpence in yo’r hands, Master John, and it’s all I have i’ the world.’

‘It’s a pity,’ said John, and again they were silent.  Half-past nine struck.  It was time to be beginning to make an end.  ’Perhaps, brother, they have friends who could advance ’em the money.  We might make it sit light to them, for the sake of their good service?’

Philip replied,—­

’There’s no one who can put forwards a penny for me:  I have but few kin, and they have little to spare beyond what they need.’

Coulson said—­

‘My father and mother have nine on us.’

‘Let alone, let alone!’ said John, relenting fast; for he was weary of his part of cold, stern prudence.  ’Brother, I think we have enough of this world’s goods to do what we like wi’ our own.’

Jeremiah was a little scandalized at the rapid melting away of assumed character, and took a good pull at his pipe before he replied—­

’Upwards of two thousand pounds is a large sum to set on the well-being and well-doing of two lads, the elder of whom is not three-and-twenty.  I fear we must look farther a-field.’

‘Why, John,’ replied Jeremiah, ’it was but yesterday thee saidst thee would rather have Philip and William than any men o’ fifty that thee knowed.  And now to bring up their youth again them.’

‘Well, well! t’ half on it is thine, and thou shall do even as thou wilt.  But I think as I must have security for my moiety, for it’s a risk—­a great risk.  Have ye any security to offer? any expectations? any legacies, as other folk have a life-interest in at present?’

No; neither of them had.  So Jeremiah rejoined—­

’Then, I suppose, I mun do as thee dost, John, and take the security of character.  And it’s a great security too, lads, and t’ best o’ all, and one that I couldn’t ha’ done without; no, not if yo’d pay me down five thousand for goodwill, and stock, and fixtures.  For John Foster and Son has been a shop i’ Monkshaven this eighty years and more; and I dunnot think there’s a man living—­or dead, for that matter—­as can say Fosters wronged him of a penny, or gave short measure to a child or a Cousin Betty.’