“Not that I know of,” I replied.
“Very well, then,” said Tom, stepping to the bed and pulling back the counterpane with much mystery. “Oblige me by counting this sum, first the notes, then the gold, and finally the silver. Or, if that is too much trouble, reflect that on this modest couch recline bank-notes for three thousand one hundred and twenty pounds, gold sovereigns to the number of three hundred and forty-two, whence by an easy subtraction sum we obtain a remainder of silver, in value three pounds thirteen and sixpence.”
“But, Tom, surely we never won all that?”
“We did though, and may for the rest of our days settle down as comparatively honest medical students. So that I propose we have supper, and drink—for I have provided drink—to the Luck of the Golden Clasp.”
Stunned with the events of the last twenty-four hours, I sat down to table, but could scarcely touch my food. Tom’s tongue went ceaselessly, now apologising for the fare, now entertaining imaginary guests, and always addressing me as a man of great wealth and property.
“Jasper,” he remarked at length, “either you are ill, or you must have been eating to excess all day.”
“Do I gather that you wish to leave the table, and pursue your mortal foe up and down Oxford Street?”
I shook my head.
“What! no revenge to-night? No thirst for blood?”
“Tom,” I replied, solemnly, “neither to-night nor any other night. My revenge is dead.”
“Dear me! when did it take place? It must have been very sudden.”
“It died to-day.”
“Jasper,” said Tom, laying his hand on my shoulder, “either wealth has turned your brain, or most remarkably given you sanity.”
TELLS HOW I SAW THE SHADOW OF THE ROCK; AND HOW I TOLD AND HEARD NEWS.
A week passed, and in the interval Tom and I made several discoveries. In the first place, to our great relief, we discovered that the bank-notes were received in Threadneedle Street without question or demur. Secondly, we found our present lodgings narrow, and therefore moved westward to St. James’s. Further, it struck us that our clothes would have to conform to the “demands of more Occidental civilisation,” as Tom put it, and also that unless we intended to be medical students for ever it was necessary to become medical men. Lastly, it began to dawn upon Tom that “Francesca: a Tragedy” was a somewhat turgid performance, and on me that a holiday on Sunday was demanded by six days of work.
I do not know that we displayed any remarkable interest in the Materia Medica, or that the authorities of Guy’s looked upon us as likely to do them any singular credit. But Tom, who had now a writing-desk, made great alterations in “Francesca,” while I consumed vast quantities of tobacco in the endeavour to reproduce a certain face in my note-book; and I am certain that the resolution to take a holiday on Sunday was as strong at the end of the first week as though I had wrought my faculties to the verge of brain fever.