“Well, Mr. Harthouse, I know I have. How else was I to get it? Here’s old Bounderby always boasting that at my age he lived upon twopence a month, or something of that sort. Here’s my father drawing what he calls a line, and tying me down to it from a baby, neck and heels. Here’s my mother who never has anything of her own, except her complaints. What is a fellow to do for money, and where am I to look for it, if not to my sister?”

He was almost crying, and scattered the buds about by dozens. Mr. Harthouse took him persuasively by the coat.

“But, my dear Tom, if your sister has not got it⁠—”