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"Yes, Mr. Haydon, sir," he said clearly. "We do not complain. Our trade keeps up, sir. We are the same as when you left, sir. We do not complain." "There," said Jen, pointing to the inanimate form of his old servant. "He is asleep or dead." "Ho, ho; and by whom?".
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"Comedy!" echoed Mrs. Dallas, in scorn. "You mean tragedy!" With regard to David Sarby, he had passed with the estate to Jen. The boy's father, a libertine, a drunkard and a confirmed gambler, had been forced, through his vices, to sell his ancestral home; and within a year of the sale he had dissipated the purchase money in debauchery. Afterward, like the sordid and pitiful coward he had always proved himself to be, he committed suicide, leaving his only son, whose mother had long since been worried into her grave, a pauper and an orphan. "Want you, Molly?" he almost sobbed, and I felt his heart pounding hard next to my shoulder. Again I ask myself the question why his friendliness to Alfred Bennett's letters always makes me so instantly cross..
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