Don't be a lunatic, Morris, you don't seem to understand my dredful situation.
I have to get the stamp on tick.

A fact.
-- Ever your affte.

Brother, J.FINSBURY 'Can't even spell!' Morris reflected, as he crammed the letter in his pocket, and left the house.

'What can I do for him?
I have to go to the expense of a barber, I'm so shattered! How can I send anybody coins?
It's hard lines, I daresay; but does he think I'm living on hot muffins?
One comfort,' was his grim reflection, 'he can't cut and run--he's got to stay; he's as helpless as the dead.' And then he broke forth again: 'Complains, does he?
and he's never even heard of Bent Pitman! If he had what I have on my mind, he might complain with a good grace.' But these were not honest arguments, or not wholly honest; there was a struggle in the mind of Morris; he could not disguise from himself that his brother John was miserably situated at Browndean, without news, without money, without bedclothes, without society or any entertainment; and by the time he had been shaved and picked a hasty breakfast at a coffee tavern, Morris had arrived at a compromise.
'Poor Johnny,' he said to himself, 'he's in an awful box! I can't send him coins, but I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll send him the Pink Un--it'll cheer John up; and besides, it'll do his credit good getting anything by post.' Accordingly, on his way to the leather business, whither he proceeded (according to his thrifty habit) on foot, Morris purchased and dispatched a single copy of that enlivening periodical, to which (in a sudden pang of remorse) he added at random the Athenaeum, the Revivalist, and the Penny Pictorial Weekly.

So there was John set up with literature, and Morris had laid balm upon his conscience.
As if to reward him, he was received in his place of business with good news.