If the father had a heart with "gold" written on it, the son had no heart at all, but gold was in its place.

Thoroughly unscrupulous as to ways and means, and simply acting on the phrase "_quocunque modo rem_," he seemed to have neither conscience of evil, nor dread of danger.

In two words, he was a "bold bad" man, divested equally of fear and feeling.
The memoirs of his past life hitherto, without controversy very little edifying, may be guessed with quite sufficient accuracy for all characteristic purposes from the coarse, sensual, worldly, and iniquitous result now standing for his portraiture before us.

We will waste on such a type of heartlessness as few words as possible: let his conduct show the man.
Just now, this worthy had risen into high favour with his father: we already know why; he had suddenly got rich on his own account, and for that very sufficient reason drew any additional sums he pleased on "the governor's." The trick or two, whereat Sir Thomas hinted, and which so wise a man would not have blabbed to fools, are worthy of record; not merely as illustrative of character, but (in one case at least, as we may find hereafter) for the sake of ulterior consequences.
John Dillaway's first exploit in the money-making line was a clever one.
He managed to possess himself of a carrier-pigeon of the Antwerp breed, one among a flock kept for stock-jobbing purposes, by a certain great capitalist; and he contrived that this trained bird should wheel down among the merchants just at noon one fine day in the Royal Exchange.

The billet under its wing contained certain cabalistic characters, and the plain-spoken intelligence, "_Louis Philippe est mort!_" In a minute after these most revolutionizing news, French funds, then at one hundred and twelve, were toppling down below ninety, and our prudent John was buying stock in all directions: nay, he even made some considerable bargains at eighty-seven.