The appearance of Mr. Bailey’s governor as he drove along fully justified that enthusiastic youth’s description of him to the wondering Poll. He had a world of jet-black shining hair upon his head, upon his cheeks, upon his chin, upon his upper lip. His clothes, symmetrically made, were of the newest fashion and the costliest kind. Flowers of gold and blue, and green and blushing red, were on his waistcoat; precious chains and jewels sparkled on his breast; his fingers, clogged with brilliant rings, were as unwieldly as summer flies but newly rescued from a honeypot. The daylight mantled in his gleaming hat and boots as in a polished glass. And yet, though changed his name, and changed his outward surface, it was Tigg. Though turned and twisted upside down, and inside out, as great men have been sometimes known to be; though no longer Montague Tigg, but Tigg Montague; still it was Tigg; the same Satanic, gallant, military Tigg. The brass was burnished, lacquered, newly stamped; yet it was the true Tigg metal notwithstanding.
Beside him sat a smiling gentleman, of less pretensions and of business looks, whom he addressed as David. Surely not the David of the—how shall it be phrased?—the triumvirate of golden balls? Not David, tapster at the Lombards’ Arms? Yes. The very man.
“The secretary’s salary, David,” said Mr. Montague, “the office being now established, is eight hundred pounds per annum, with his house-rent, coals, and candles free. His five-and-twenty shares he holds, of course. Is that enough?”
David smiled and nodded, and coughed behind a little locked portfolio which he carried; with an air that proclaimed him to be the secretary in question.
“If that’s enough,” said Montague, “I will propose it at the Board today, in my capacity as chairman.”
The secretary smiled again; laughed, indeed, this time; and said, rubbing his nose slyly with one end of the portfolio:
“It was a capital thought, wasn’t it?”
“What was a capital thought, David?” Mr. Montague inquired.
“The Anglo-Bengalee,” tittered the secretary.
“The Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company is rather a capital concern, I hope, David,” said Montague.
“Capital indeed!” cried the secretary, with another laugh—“in one sense.”
“In the only important one,” observed the chairman; “which is number one, David.”
“What,” asked the secretary, bursting into another laugh, “what will be the paid up capital, according to the next prospectus?”
“A figure of two, and as many oughts after it as the printer can get into the same line,” replied his friend. “Ha, ha!”
At this they both laughed; the secretary so vehemently, that in kicking up his feet, he kicked the apron open, and nearly started Cauliflower’s brother into an oyster shop; not to mention Mr. Bailey’s receiving such a sudden swing, that he held on for a moment, quite a young Fame, by one strap and no legs.
“What a chap you are!” exclaimed David admiringly, when this little alarm had subsided.
“Say, genius, David, genius.”
“Well, upon my soul, you are a genius then,” said David. “I always knew you had the gift of the gab, of course; but I never believed you were half the man you are. How could I?”
“I rise with circumstances, David. That’s a point of genius in itself,” said Tigg. “If you were to lose a hundred pound wager to me at this minute David, and were to pay it (which is most confoundedly improbable), I should rise, in a mental point of view, directly.”
It is due to Mr. Tigg to say that he had really risen with his opportunities; peculating on a grander scale, he had become a grander man altogether.
“Ha, ha,” cried the secretary, laying his hand, with growing familiarity, upon the chairman’s arm. “When I look at you, and think of your property in Bengal being—ha, ha, ha!—”
The half-expressed idea seemed no less ludicrous to Mr. Tigg than to his friend, for he laughed too, heartily.
“—Being,” resumed David, “being amenable—your property in Bengal being amenable—to all claims upon the company; when I look at you and think of that, you might tickle me into fits by waving the feather of a pen at me. Upon my soul you might!”
“It a devilish fine property,” said Tigg Montague, “to be amenable to any claims. The preserve of tigers alone is worth a mint of money, David.”
David could only reply in the intervals of his laughter, “Oh, what a chap you are!” and so continued to laugh, and hold his sides, and wipe his eyes, for some time, without offering any other observation.
“A capital idea?” said Tigg, returning after a time to his companion’s first remark; “no doubt it was a capital idea. It was my idea.”
“No, no. It was my idea,” said David. “Hang it, let a man have some credit. Didn’t I say to you that I’d saved a few pounds?—”
“You said! Didn’t I say to you,” interposed Tigg, “that I had come into a few pounds?”
“Certainly you did,” returned David, warmly, “but that’s not the idea. Who said, that if we put the money together we could
