Eleven Thousand Pounds

“Take care of it, Hugh.”

“All right, Sir; good-morning.”

“Good-morning;” and Mr. Hugh Randall put on his hat, and, passing through the bank, took his way into the town with £11,000 under his charge.

Oh, Hugh, Hugh, did it never occur to you that pockets have been picked before now, and that some such trifle as a few odd thousands might not come amiss to any one who, with limited means of his own, was desirous of increasing them at his neighbors’ expense? Whether the thought of danger entered his mind or not, Hugh risked it, and went leisurely on his way, for Mr. Hugh was one of those people who make a point of never being unduly excited. He was frequently employed in the execution of such transactions as the present between his uncle’s bank and the other banks of the city; consequently he felt much at home when, on reaching his destination, he marched up to that portion of the bank counter which was appropriated to the business transactions of a multitude of people whose surnames happened to fall within the bounds marked out by the letters “L to R.”

The elderly and precise clerk who occupied the high stool on the opposite side of the counter was almost shaken out of his propriety by Hugh’s start and confused exclamation, as, after searching vainly in the depths of his pockets for the precious notes, the fact dawned upon him that they were gone, unmistakably gone.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Hugh?” “What is it?” was repeated more than once before his scattered senses were recalled, and then the query was only met by another, and one which, alas! was not to be so easily answered. “What am I to do?” were the words which he at last stammered out. Had any one kindly suggested some plan by which he might, without loss of time, have shipped himself for the antipodes, no doubt Hugh would gladly have adopted it;… Read More