But I have two hundred thousand pounds. I wish I could get you to imitate Thames Darrell. He saw it in book-covers, on the stage. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. "I can readily see," he said, "why you'll always be as poor as a church mouse. "No, lad," said McClintock, his tone becoming kindly. You are infatuated. .
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