"Hey? Turn proud? No; I sha'n't turn proud. You will. Won't he, Jessie?" "No," said Jessie, speaking up. "Father will never alter--never." "Well, I don't know about that," said Dick, with a peculiar smile, which he seemed to wipe off directly by passing his hand across his mouth. "Perhaps I may alter, you know, and a good deal too. But, look here, old Hopper, you stop to-day, and we'll have a holiday--the first I've had for years." "Hey? Holiday? What, go out?" "No," said Dick, "stay at home. We'll have a bit of supper together, and drink the health of him as sent me that money--bless him. I can't work to-day. I'm ripening up something, and I can do it best over the old fiddle. We haven't had a scrape for weeks." "Scrape? No," said the old fellow, "we haven't;" and, getting up, he toddled to the corner cupboard, from which he drew out a violoncello in its faded green baize bag, and, patting it affectionately, brought it out into the middle of the room. "I was going to take it away to-day," he said. "It's too valuable to be lost." "Thought we were going to be sold up, eh, Hopper, old man?" said Dick, taking down a violin that hung by the eight-day clock. "Hey?" "Thought we were going to be sold up, eh? I should have taken care of your old bass," said Dick, with a nod and a smile. "It should not have come to harm, Hopper, anyhow. Now, missus, and you, Jessie, give us a cup of tea, with srimps and creases, and a nice bit of supper about eight. We'll have a happy day in the old house for the last one." "Last one, Dick!" "Yes, mother, the last one. I shall move into better premises to-morrow." "Dick dear," cried Mrs Shingle imploringly--while Hopper seemed to be busying himself over the strings of the 'cello--"what does all this mean? What are you going to do?" "Do!" said Dick, making his violin chirrup: "throw away wax-end and leather. They say, let the shoemaker stick to his last; but I've stuck to it too long. Mother, I'm going to make a fortune." "But how, Dick--how?" "Wait and see." "You'll tell me what you are going to do?" said Mrs Shingle, half angrily. "I sha'n't tell a soul," replied Dick firmly; and then, seeing the effect his words had upon his wife, he kissed her, tuned up his violin, and began to turn over the leaves of some very old music with the bow. "Here's the note, mother; and don't spare expense--as far as five shillings go. Get a drop of whiskey, too." "Hey! whiskey? Who said whiskey?" exclaimed Hopper. "Going to have a drop of whiskey to-night, Dick?" Dick nodded. "That's good," said the old fellow, laughing and nodding his head. "We'll drink success to the new venture, Dick." "We will. Now, then, what's it to be, eh? Here we go: `Life's a bumper!' That'll do, for it is; and many a bump and bruise it has given me."