"Clean yer boots? Brush down, sir?"
"Why can't yer leave the gent alone? I spoke fust, sir."
"Here y'are, sir--out of the crowd, sir."
Sixpence to be earned, and a scuffle for it, with the result that
Richard Trevor stood a little out of the stream of passengers, stoically
permitting a gentleman in an old red-sleeved waistcoat to "ciss-s-s" at
him, as he brushed him most carefully down with an old brush, even
though he was not in the slightest degree dusty.
"Now, look here, Dick, if I'm to go trotting about at your heels like a
big dog, I shall bite at everybody who tries to rob you. I shan't stand
by and see you fleeced. Is there something in salt water that makes you
sailors ready to part with your money to the first comer?"
The speaker was Frank Pratt, as he drew his friend away towards one of
the omnibuses running that day from Broxford Station to where a regular
back and heart-breaking bit of country had been flagged over for a
steeplechase course.
"You shall do precisely as you like, Frank," was the quiet reply.
"Very good, then--I will. Now, look here, Dick; you have now, I
suppose, a clear income of twelve thousand a year?"
"Yes, somewhere about that."
"And you want to fool it all away?"
"Not I."
"Well, there was a specimen. You gave that fellow a shilling for
brushing your coat that was not dirty."
"Poor devil, yes! He tried to earn it honestly, and we don't get such
luxuries at sea."
"As honestly as Van earned forty sovs. of you after we left Tatt's
yesterday."
"Don't understand you, Franky," said Trevor, with a twinkle of the eye,
as he allowed himself to be caught by a shoeblack, and placed a slightly
soiled boot upon his stand.
"Tut!" ejaculated Pratt. "There you go again. What a fellow you are,
Dick! What I meant was that horse of his. You gave him a cheque for a
hundred for it."
"Yes, I did, Franky."
"He gave sixty for it last week."