--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.
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