CHAPTER LIV.

MEADOWS sat one day in his study receiving Crawley’s report.

“Old Mr. Merton came yesterday.  I made difficulties as instructed.  Is to come to-morrow.”

“He shall have the eight hundred.”

“That makes two thousand four hundred; why, his whole stock won’t cover it.”

“No!”

“Don’t understand it, it is too deep for me.  What is the old gentleman doing?”

“Hunting Will-o’-the-wisp.  Throwing it away in speculations that are colored bright for him by a man that wants to ruin him.”

“Aha!” cackled Crawley.

“And do him no harm.”

“Augh!  How far is it to the bottom of the sea, sir, if you please?  I’m sure you know?  Mr. Levi and you.”

“Crawley,” said Meadows, suddenly turning the conversation, “the world calls me close-fisted, have you found me so?”

“Liberal as running water, sir.  I sometimes say how long will this last before such a great man breaks Peter Crawley and flings him away and takes another?” and Crawley sighed.

“Then your game is to make yourself necessary to me.”

“I wish I could,” said Peter, with mock candor.  “Sir,” he crept on, “if the most ardent zeal, if punctuality, secrecy, and unscrupulous fidelity—­”

“Hold your gammon!  Are we writing a book together!  Answer me this in English.  How far dare you go along with me?”

“As far as your purse extends:  only—­”

“Only what?  Only your thermometer is going down already, I suppose.”

“No, sir; but what I mean is, I shouldn’t like to do anything too bad.”

“What d’ye mean by too bad?”

“Punishable by law.”

“It is not your conscience you fear, then?” asked the other gloomily.

“Oh, dear, no, sir, only the law.”

“I envy you.  There is but one crime punishable by law, and that I shall never counsel you to.”

“Only one—­too deep, sir, too deep.  Which is that?”

“The crime of getting found out.”

“What a great man! how far would I go with you?  To the end of the earth.  I have but one regret, sir.”

“And what is that?”

“That I am not thought worthy of your confidence.  That after so many years I am still only a too—­I mean an honored instrument, and not a humble friend.”

“Crawley,” said Meadows, solemnly, “let well alone.  Don’t ask my confidence, for I am often tempted to give it you, and that would be all one as if I put the blade of a razor in your naked hand.”

“I don’t care, sir!  You are up to some game as deep as a coal-pit; and I go on working and working all in the dark.  I’d give anything to be in your confidence.”

“Anything is nothing; put it in figures,” sneered Meadows, incredulously.

“I’ll give twenty per cent off all you give me if you will let me see the bottom.”