Here is a letter from Tom McKeown, of Abbey Street.

I wrote to him about raising a few hundreds on mortgage, to clear off some of our debts, and have a trifle in hand for drainage and to buy stock, and he tells me that there's no use in going to any of the money-lenders so long as your extravagance continues to be the talk of the town.

Ay, you needn't grow red nor frown that way.

The letter was a private one to myself, and I'm only telling it to you in confidence.

Hear what he says: "You have a right to make your son a fellow-commoner if you like, and he has a right, by his father's own showing, to behave like a man of fortune; but neither of you have a right to believe that men who advance money will accept these pretensions as good security, or think anything but the worse of you both for your extravagance."' 'And you don't mean to horsewhip him, sir ?' burst out Dick.
'Not, at any rate, till I pay off two thousand pounds that I owe him, and two years' interest at six per cent.