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"Your what? Look here: what do you mean?"
"I say, take 'em if you like--hundreds of thousands do. Small boxes one and three-halfpence, large boxes two-and-nine, with the Government stamp."
"Bah! I know all about that," said Hopper, rattling a box close to his ear, and then opening it, to show a dozen boluses covered with gold foil. "Have one?"
"No, thanks," said d.i.c.k, smiling. "I know 'em by heart--compound rhubarb and a little new bread. That's my secret, my fortune, old lad."
"What!" cried Hopper. "Hey? what! You made your fortune with these?"
"Yes," said d.i.c.k; "the murder's out now. My bright idea was--_The Gilded Pill_. But I was not at all proud of it, so I kept it dark."
"Well, I am blessed," said Hopper.
"Glad of it. So am I, old man. It's paid me well, but there was always a skeleton in the cupboard."
"Hey?"
"Skeleton, old man. I've paid thousands to Government for stamps, but they wouldn't have let me off if anything had gone wrong."
"But these pills couldn't go wrong, could they?"
"I don't think so, Hopper; but I never meet a doctor without feeling queer,--the faculty is like a cloud to me, and behind it I always seem to see an inquest coming off through somebody taking too much of my stuff."
"The idea of your keeping it all to yourself! You might have told me."
"You never told me you were a wealthy man, and Uncle Rounce in Australia."
"Humph!"
"I say, Hopper, would you give up the pills now?"
Hopper's answer was emphatically--"No."
The End.
