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The Red Rat's Daughter By: Guy Newell Boothby (1867-1905) |
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[Frontispiece: "At last .... he drew her up."]
THE RED RAT'S DAUGHTER By Guy Boothby
AUTHOR OF "DOCTOR NIKOLA," "THE BEAUTIFUL WHITE DEVIL,"
"PHAROS, THE EGYPTIAN," ETC, ETC
ILLUSTRATED BY HENRY AUSTIN
LONDON WARD, LOCK AND CO LIMITED NEW YORK AND MELBOURNE 1899
CHAPTER I If John Grantham Browne had a fault which, mind you, I am not prepared
to admit it lay in the fact that he was the possessor of a cynical wit
which he was apt at times to use upon his friends with somewhat
peculiar effect. Circumstances alter cases, and many people would have
argued that he was perfectly entitled to say what he pleased. When a
man is worth a hundred and twenty thousand pounds a year which, worked
out, means ten thousand pounds a month, three hundred and twenty eight
pounds, fifteen shillings and fourpence a day, and four and sixpence
three farthings, and a fraction over, per minute he may surely be
excused if he becomes a little sceptical as to other people's motives,
and is apt to be distrustful of the world in general. Old Brown, his
father, without the "e," as you have doubtless observed, started life
as a bare legged street arab in one of the big manufacturing
centres Manchester or Birmingham, I am not quite certain which. His
head, however, must have been screwed on the right way, for he made few
mistakes, and everything he touched turned to gold. At thirty his bank
balance stood at fifteen thousand pounds; at forty it had turned the
corner of a hundred thousand; and when he departed this transitory
life, a young man in everything but years, he left his widow, young
John's mother his second wife, I may remark in passing, and the third
daughter of the late Lord Rushbrooke upwards of three and a half
million pounds sterling in trust for the boy. As somebody wittily remarked at the time, young John, at his father's
death and during his minority, was a monetary Mohammed he hovered
between two worlds: the Rushbrookes, on one side, who had not two
sixpences to rub against each other, and the Brownes, on the other, who
reckoned their wealth in millions and talked of thousands as we humbler
mortals do of half crowns. Taken altogether, however, old Brown was
not a bad sort of fellow. Unlike so many parvenus, he had the good
sense, the "e" always excepted, not to set himself up to be what he
certainly was not. He was a working man, he would tell you with a
twinkle in his eye, and he had made his own way in the world. He had
never in his life owed a halfpenny, nor, to the best of his knowledge,
had he ever defrauded anybody; and, if he had made his fortune out of
soap, well and here his eyes would glisten soap was at least a useful
article, and would wash his millions cleaner than a good many other
commodities he might mention. In his tastes and habits he was
simplicity itself. Indeed, it was no unusual sight to see the old
fellow, preparatory to setting off for the City, coming down the steps
of his magnificent town house, dressed in a suit of rough tweed, with
the famous bird's eye neck cloth loosely twisted round his throat, and
the soft felt hat upon his head two articles of attire which no
remonstrance on the part of his wife and no amount of ridicule from the
comic journals could ever induce him to discard. His stables were full
of carriages, and there was a cab rank within a hundred yards of his
front door, yet no one had ever seen him set foot in either. The soles
of his boots were thick, and he had been accustomed to walk all his
life, he would say, and he had no intention of being carried till he
was past caring what became of him. With regard to his son, the apple
of his eye, and the pride of his old age, his views were entirely
different. Nothing was good enough for the boy. From the moment he
opened his eyes upon the light, all the luxuries and advantages wealth
could give were showered upon him. Before he was short coated, upwards
of a million had been placed to his credit at the bank, not to be
touched until he came of age... Continue reading book >>
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