Not many days later a sudden bereavement brought our junior partner back
from Europe and I took my family North for a more stimulating air. Before
I went I called on my St. Peter Street friend to say that during my
absence either of my partners would fulfil any wish of his concerning the
money. In his wife's sewing-basket in the back room I noticed a batch of
unopened letters, and ventured a question which had been in my mind for
several days.

"Manouvrier, you must get a host of letters these days from people who
think you ought to help them because you have got money and they haven't.
Do you read them?"

"Naw!" He gave me his back, bending suddenly over some real or pretended
work. "I read some--first day. Since dat time I give 'em to old woman--
wash hand--go to work ag'in--naw use."

"Ah! no use?" piped up the soft-voiced wife. "I use them to light those
fire to cook those soup." But I felt the absence of her accustomed laugh.

"Well, it's there whenever you want it," I said to the husband as I was
leaving.

"What?" The tone of the response was harsh. "What is where?"

"Why, the money. It's in the bank."

"Hah!" he said, with a contemptuous smile and finished with his thumb.
That was the first time I ever saw a thumb swear. But in a moment his
kindly gravity was on him again and he said, "Daz all right; I come git
her some day."