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 any money he would send it from time to time to a post-office in the neighbourhood; that they were not to fret for him, as he would be sure to turn up sooner or later; that the cheque for £12 was for their use; that his dismissal was not attended by any disgraceful circumstances, and that he was their ever-loving son, Johnny Pounce.

Old Johnny's indignation at this desertion was unbounded. "So that's my son, is it? That's my fair-weather son, whom I've brought up, and educated, and clothed, and fed, and whom the firm made a gentleman of. What'll the firm think of this, after all their kindness?"

Mrs. Pounce mildly reminded her husband that the firm was in Heaven.

"True, true—I forgot. If he'd only given us a hint as to where he was going; if he'd shaken his old dad's hand and kissed his old mother before he left, I could have forgiven him. But to desert his old parents just as soon as he found out that they were penniless and could help him no longer, was that like a son of ours, Emma?"

"Well, Johnny, for the matter of that, it maybe that he was fearful of being an encumbrance. He's left his half-quarter's salary for us, and I'm afraid the poor boy has gone forth into the world without a penny in his pocket. I'd make a better breakfast this morning for the knowledge beyond doubt that he'd had one too. Perhaps he's hungry, Johnny."

"Hungry, Emma? Young John hungry, and me a-pegging away into bread and meat, and his