"Hamish, were I threatened with worry, as you are, I could not be
otherwise than oppressed and serious."
"Where would be the use of that?" cried gay Hamish. "Care killed a cat.
Look here, Arthur, you and your grave face! Did you ever know care do a
fellow good? I never did: but a great deal of harm. I shall manage to
scramble out of the pit somehow. You'll see." He put the note into his
pocket, as he spoke, and took up his hat to depart.
"Stop an instant longer, Hamish. I have just met Hopper."
"He did not convert you into a writ-server, I hope. I don't think it
would be legal."
"There you are, joking again! Hamish, he has the writ, but he does not
wish to serve it. You are to keep out of his way, he says, and he will
not seek to put himself in yours. My father was kind to him in days
gone by, and he remembers it now."
"He's a regular trump! I'll send him half-a-crown in a parcel,"
exclaimed Hamish.
"I wish you would hear me out. He says a ten-pound note, perhaps a
five-pound note, on account, would induce 'his people'--suppose you
understand the phrase--to stay proceedings, and to give you time. He
strongly advises it to be done. That's all."
Not only all Arthur had to say upon the point, but all he had time to
say. At that moment, the barouche of Lady Augusta Yorke drove up to the
door, and they both went out to it. Lady Augusta, her daughter Fanny,
and Constance Channing were in it.
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