"The people are up in arms down about there," he said. "Lots of them who wrote for shares in the new allotment have not succeeded in getting any, and I thought they'd have torn me to pieces. _I_ can't help it. It's a dear impossibility that the whole world can go in for being rich. If luck falls on one, it doesn't fall on another." Dr. Ford, to whom Mr. Barker had seemed to appeal, nodded his head. "I hear great things of this mine, sir," said he. "Great things!" repeated Mr. Barker, as if the words were not sufficiently expressive. "It is the very grandest thing that England has seen for many a day. The golden wealth of the Spanish Main is poor compared to it." "I'm sure I hope it will answer." "You--hope--it--will--answer!" echoed Mr. Barker, his red face going rather purple. "Why, sir, it _has_ answered. It _is_ answering. I could take my interest in it into the money market tomorrow, and sell it for half a million of money. Answer!" Oswald Cray came nearer. "When shall you begin to realise?" he inquired. "In about six weeks from this." "Six weeks! Really to realise?" "We might get some loads off before, if we chose, but we don't care to begin until the sales can go on uninterruptedly. The lead is coming up beautifully; vast quantities of it. You never saw such lead. It bangs all other in the locality into fits." Mr. Barker in his joyous excitement was scarcely choice in his mode of speech. He was not particularly so at any time. He rubbed his hands--which looked as red as if they had been dining for ore--one against another. "A fellow came up to the place--Lord What's-his-name's agent--and began handling the specimens. 'What sort of ore d'ye call this?' he asked. 'The best that ever was dug,' some of our men answered him. 'And so it is,' said he: 'we can't get such as this out of our pit.' No more they can: not an owner of 'em in all Wales." "But you will not be selling freely in six weeks?" returned Oswald. "It is impossible." "Impossible, is it?" retorted Mr. Barker. "It would be in most cases, I grant you; it's not in ours. You go and look at the thousands of men on the works. The Great Chwddyn mine doesn't deal in impossibilities." "Would you be so good as tell me what you call that word, sir?" asked the physician, putting his hand to his ear. "We can't get at the pronunciation of it at Hallingham." "And we can't here," returned easy Mr. Barker. "One calls it one thing and one another. As to trying to speak it like the natives, nobody can. _We_ call it the Great Wheal Bang up here. Not that it's at all appropriate or correct to do so, but one can't be breaking one's teeth over the other. You see--Halloa! what's this? For me?" One of Mark's servants had entered with a telegraphic dispatch. It was addressed to Mr. Barker. "Your man has brought it round from Piccadilly, sir. He thought it might be of moment." "Let's see. Where's it from?--Wales? Ay. Another lode discovered, I'll be bound!"