absorbed face of the gipsy as he studied my future.

"Rotten shift, life is," now murmured the Honourable George quite as
if he had forgotten me. "If I'd have but put through that Monte Carlo
affair I dare say I'd have chucked the whole business--gone to South
Africa, perhaps, and set up a mine or a plantation. Shouldn't have
come back. Just cut off, and good-bye to this mess. But no capital.
Can't do things without capital. Where these American Johnnies have
the pull of us. Do anything. Nearly do what they jolly well like to.
No sense to money. Stuff that runs blind. Look at the silly beggars
that have it----" On he went quite alarmingly with his tirade. Almost
as violent he was as an ugly-headed chap I once heard ranting when I
went with my brother-in-law to a meeting of the North Brixton Radical
Club. Quite like an anarchist he was. Presently he quieted. After a
long pull at his pipe he regarded me with an entire change of manner.
Well I knew something was coming; coming swift as a rocketing
woodcock. Word for word I put down our incredible speeches:

"You are going out to America, Ruggles."

"Yes, sir; North or South, sir?"

"North, I fancy; somewhere on the West coast--Ohio, Omaha, one of those
Indian places."

"Perhaps Indiana or the Yellowstone Valley, sir."

"The chap's a sort of millionaire."

"The chap, sir?"