a rich man, if only he played his cards well!

With how sure an instinct he had clung to the old house!--had held on
to this relic of a past gentility to which by rights he belonged!

He was a rich man now, and would defy Pamphlett and all his works--

How pleasant it is to have money, heigho!
How pleasant it is to have money!--

if only he knew how much!

And yet . . . Although philosophers in all ages have descanted on the
blessings of Hope, and the part played by Imagination in making
tolerable the business of living--so that men in the mass not only
carry life through with courage but will turn and fight desperately
for it, like stags at bay--it is to be doubted if one in ten ever
guesses how constantly he is sustained by this spirit scorning the
substance, gallantly blind, with promises lifting him over defeat.
I dare to say that, save for the strength of hope it put into him,
this wealth, so suddenly poured at Nicky-Nan's feet, doubled his
discomfort, physical and mental.

Of his physical discomfort, just now, there could be no question.
He could not find courage to leave his trove and climb the stairs
back to his bedroom. Some one might rob him while he slept, and--
horror!--he would never even know of how much he had been robbed.
The anguish in his leg forbade his standing sentry: the night wanted
almost three hours of dawn. Shirt and trousers were his only
garments.