“The idea was mine, but not the Latin,” answered Mr. Black, frankly. “I do not pretend to be much of a scholar myself; I had something else to do when I was young than pore over any book, unless, indeed, it might be a day-book; but I know even the appearance of learning has an effect on the general public, and so I begged Dudley to look me up one or two appropriate quotations. He is a gentleman, you know—been to college, and all that sort of thing.” “They do not sell brains at college, it appears, however, though they may learning,” remarked Mr. Stewart, drily; after which speech, intended, evidently, as a delicate compliment to Arthur Dudley’s understanding, the great director put his hat on his head, and said “Good afternoon” to Mr. Black, and, walking out of the office, took his way westward through Cloak and Trinity Lanes, thinking as he went, “That is a sharp, clever fellow. Now I wonder if he can and will be honest, even to answer his own purpose.” Meanwhile, the subject of this speculation stood shaking his clenched fist after Mr. Stewart. “I wish to God I dare have kicked the old humbug up Cannon Street,” he said in his rage, quite out loud. “I should not mind paying a hundred pounds to have the pleasure of telling the cursed upstart that I don’t care a damn for him, or his connection, or his standing, or anything about him. Here have I had all the trouble, all the anxiety, all the work, while my gentleman was amusing himself doing the grand in foreign countries; and then, when I, after having stood the racket, began to hope the rest would be smooth sailing, down he comes with his capital, and sweeps away all chance of profit. Capital, indeed; damn capital, say I!” Thus the man whose life had been one long struggle to gain capital, who was never weary of writing prospectus after prospectus in order to prove that without capital nothing good or great ever had been, or ever would be, accomplished; the ostensible object of whose existence it was to demonstrate that individual exertion was useless; that it was only the united wealth of a number of individuals which could hope to effect large results; the actual end of whose labours—could those labours have been carried out according to the programme he had arranged—was to exterminate all small tradesmen, all struggling merchants—almost unconsciously paraphrased the sense of Mr. Raidsford’s lamentation. Great wits and little wits, we are assured, oftentimes jump together, and on this occasion, certainly, the man of large resources and the man of none expressed nearly identical opinions. “The concentration of capital will be the ruin of England,” said Mr. Raidsford, who felt how such a concentration might have neutralized his own efforts to rise in the world. “Damn capital!” said Mr. Black, smarting under Mr. Stewart’s insolence; “it is capital, and nothing but capital, which enables these fellows to give themselves such airs.”