'Sturk owes money, mark my words, sweetheart. Remember _I_ say it--he'll cool his heels in a prison, if he's no wiser than of late, before a twel'month. Since the beginning of February he has lost--just wait a minute, and let me see--ay, that, L150 by the levanting of old Tom Farthingale; and, I had it to-day from little O'Leary, who had it from Jim Kelly, old Craddock's conducting clerk, he's bit to the tune of three hundred more by the failure of Larkin, Brothers, and Hoolaghan. You see a little bit of usury under the rose is all very well for a vulgar dog like Sturk, if he knows the town, and how to go about it; but hang, it, he knows nothing. Why, the turnpike-man, over the way, would not have taken old Jos. Farthingale's bill for fippence--no, nor his bond neither; and he's stupid beside--but he can't help that, the hound!--and he'll owe a whole year's rent only six weeks hence, and he has not a shilling to bless himself with. Unfortunate devil--I've no reason to like him--but, truly, I do pity him.' Saying which Tom Toole, with his back to the fire, and a look of concern thrown into his comic little mug, and his eyebrows raised, experienced a very pleasurable glow of commiseration. Sturk, on the contrary, was more than commonly silent and savage that evening, and sat in his drawing-room, with his fists in his breeches' pockets, and his heels stretched out, lurid and threatening, in a gloomy and highly electric state. Mrs. S. did not venture her usual 'would my Barney like a dish of tea?' but plied her worsted and knitting-needles with mild concentration, sometimes peeping under her lashes at Sturk, and sometimes telegraphing faintly to the children if they whispered too loud--all cautious pantomime--_nutu signisque loquuntur_.