Weak, a liar, and idle, and mean as a collier's whelp Nosing for scraps in the galley. No help--my son was no help! So he gets three 'undred thousand, in trust and the interest paid. I wouldn't give it you, Dickie--you see, I made it in trade. You're saved from soiling your fingers, and if you have no child, It all comes back to the business. Gad, won't your wife be wild! Calls and calls in her carriage, her 'andkerchief up to 'er eye: "Daddy! dear daddy's dyin'!" and doing her best to cry. Grateful? Oh, yes, I'm grateful, but keep 'er away from here. Your mother 'ud never ha' stood 'er, and, anyhow, women are queer.... There's women will say I've married a second time. Not quite! But give pore Aggie a hundred, and tell her your lawyers'll fight. She was the best o' the boiling--you'll meet her before it ends; I'm in for a row with the mother--I'll leave you settle my friends: For a man he must go with a woman, which women don't understand-- Or the sort that say they can see it they aren't the marrying brand. But I wanted to speak o' your mother that's Lady Gloster still. I'm going to up and see her, without it's hurting the will. Here! Take your hand off the bell-pull. Five thousand's waiting for you, If you'll only listen a minute, and do as I bid you do. They'll try to prove me a loony, and, if you bungle, they can; And I've only you to trust to! (O God, why ain't he a man?) There's some waste money on marbles, the same as McCullough tried-- Marbles and mausoleums--but I call that sinful pride. There's some ship bodies for burial--we've carried 'em, soldered and packed; Down in their wills they wrote it, and nobody called _them_ cracked. But me--I've too much money, and people might.... All my fault: It come o' hoping for grandsons and buying that Wokin' vault. I'm sick o' the 'ole dam' business; I'm going back where I came. Dick, you're the son o' my body, and you'll take charge o' the same! I'm going to lie by your mother, ten thousand mile away, And they'll want to send me to Woking; and that's where you'll earn your pay. I've thought it out on the quiet, the same as it ought to be done-- Quiet, and decent, and proper--an' here's your orders, my son. You know the Line? You don't, though. You write to the Board, and tell Your father's death has upset you an' you're goin' to cruise for a spell, An' you'd like the Mary Gloster--I've held her ready for this-- They'll put her in working order an' you'll take her out as she is. Yes, it was money idle when I patched her and put her aside (Thank God, I can pay for my fancies!)--the boat where your mother died, By the Little Paternosters, as you come to the Union Bank, We dropped her--I think I told you--and I pricked it off where she sank.