My father was billiard-marker at
Casey's Hotel, Dandaloo," said the old man with conscious pride.
"A swell he had been, but the boose done him up, like many a better
man. He used to write to people over in England for money, but they
never giv him any."
"Where did he write to?" asked Carew, looking at the uncouth figure
with intense interest. "Do you know what people he wrote to?"
"Yairs. He wrote to William Considine. That was his father's name.
His father never sent any money, though. Told him to go to hell,
I reckon."
"What was your father's name?"
"William Patrick Considine."
Carew dashed out to his saddle, hurriedly unstrapped a valise, and
brought in a small packet of papers.
"Here you are," he said, opening one, and showing it to Gordon.
"Those are the names, Patrick Henry Considine, son of William Patrick
Considine. Entitled under his grandfather's will--by Jove, do you
know there's a lot of money waiting for you in England?"
"There's what?"
"A lot of money left you. In England. Any amount of it. If you are
the right man, you're rich, don't you know. Quite a wealthy man."
"How much money d'you say, Mister?"
"Oh, a great deal. Thousands and thousands. Your grandfather left
it. No one knew for certain where you were, or if you were alive."
"I'm alive all right, I believe," said Considine, staring hard at
them.
Pages:
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165