Coke and Blackstone.

"You'll never find your father," said Mr. Bertram.

"At any rate, I'll try; and if I miss him, I shall see something of
the world."

"You'll see more in London in three months than you will there in
twelve; and, moreover, you would not lose your time."

But George was inexorable, and before the three months were over he
had started on his trip.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. George," said Mr. Pritchett to him the day
before he went (his uncle had requested him to call on Pritchett in
the city)--"I beg your pardon, Mr. George, but if I may be allowed to
speak a word or so, I do hope you'll write a line now and then to the
old gentleman while you are away."

Now George had never written a line to his uncle in his life; all his
communications as to his journeys and proposed arrivals had, by his
uncle's special direction, been made to the housekeeper, and he had
no present intention of commencing a correspondence.

"Write to him, Mr. Pritchett! No, I don't suppose I shall. I take it,
my uncle does not much care for such letters as I should write."

"Ah! but he would, Mr. George. You shouldn't be too quick to take
persons by their appearances. It's half a million of money, you know,
Mr. George; half--a--million--of--money!" And Mr. Pritchett put great
stress on the numeration of his patron's presumed wealth.

"Half a million, is it? Well, that's a great deal, no doubt; and I
fully see the force of your excellent argument. But I fear there is
nothing to be done in that line: I'm not born to be the heir to half
a million of money; you might see that in my face."

Mr. Pritchett stared at him very hard. "Well, I can't say that I do,
Mr. George; but take my word for it, the old gentleman is very fond
of you."

"Very fond! That's a little too strong, isn't it?"

"That is, if he's very fond of anything. Now, he said to me
yesterday, 'Pritchett,' says he, 'that boy's going to Bagdad.'
'What! Mr. George?' says I. 'Yes,' says he; 'and to Hong Kong too, I
suppose, before he comes back: he's going after his father;' and then
he gave one of those bitter looks, you know. 'That's a pity,' says
I, for you know one must humour him. 'He is a fool,' says your uncle,
'and always will be.'"

"I'm sure, Mr. Pritchett, I'm very much obliged for the trouble you
are at in telling me."

"Oh! I think nothing of the trouble. 'And he knows no more about
money,' says your uncle, 'than an ostrich. He can't go to Bagdad ou