cannot endure those nephews of mine. I find them intolerable.'

'I daresay you do,' assented Michael, 'I never could stand them for a

moment.'

'They wouldn't let me speak,' continued the old gentleman bitterly; 'I

never was allowed to get a word in edgewise; I was shut up at once with

some impertinent remark. They kept me on short allowance of pencils,

when I wished to make notes of the most absorbing interest; the daily

newspaper was guarded from me like a young baby from a gorilla. Now, you

know me, Michael. I live for my calculations; I live for my manifold and

ever-changing views of life; pens and paper and the productions of the

popular press are to me as important as food and drink; and my life

was growing quite intolerable when, in the confusion of that fortunate

railway accident at Browndean, I made my escape. They must think

me dead, and are trying to deceive the world for the chance of the

tontine.'

'By the way, how do you stand for money?' asked Michael kindly.

'Pecuniarily speaking, I am rich,' returned the old man with

cheerfulness. 'I am living at present at the rate of one hundred a year,

with unlimited pens and paper; the British Museum at which to get books;

and all the newspapers I choose to read. But it's extraordinary how

little a man of intellectual interest requires to bother with books in a

progressive age. The newspapers supply all the conclusions.'

'I'll tell you what,' said Michael, 'come and stay with me.'

'Michael,' said the old gentleman, 'it's very kind of you, but you

scarcely understand what a peculiar position I occupy. There are some

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