"Hullo, thick-head! loafing again."
It was a dark, olive-complexioned young fellow, of Sir Richard's age,
who swung into the opening noisily, cigarette in mouth.
"Not loafing, Mr Frayne, sir," said the man in an injured tone, as he
fixed his eyes on the rather handsome student who had entered the room,
and took in at a glance his white flannels and yellow-striped blazer,
from the breast-pocket of which a thick gold chain was hanging. "Beg
pardon, sir; you'll be losing your watch-chain's out o' buttonhole."
"Well, what business is it of yours, idiot? If I lose it, you might
find it. Perquisites--eh, Jerry?"
"There, S'Richard," said the man, flushing. "Now, ain't that as good as
sayin' I'd steal a watch? I'd take my oath I never--"
"That will do, Jerry," said Sir Richard, sternly. "You needn't wait.--
Why can't you leave the fellow alone, Mark?"
"Why can't you act like a gentleman, and not be always making friends
with the servants?" retorted the young fellow addressed. "So that's it,
is it? The confounded sneak comes tattling to you, does he?"
"No!" cried Sir Richard, rather gruffly; "but he did complain of your
forgetting yourself and throwing things at him."
"Oh, did he?" cried Mark Frayne, catching up the nearest thing, which
was the model his cousin had been making, and hurling it at the
offender, but without effect, for Jeremiah Brigley already had the door
open and darted out; the panel receiving the model instead of his head.
Sir Richard Frayne sprang to his feet to save his model, but too late;
it fell, shivered, to the carpet, and the new-comer burst into a roar of
laughter.
"I don't see anything to grin at," said his cousin, indignantly.
"Not you!" said the other, letting himself down on to the keyboard of
the piano with a loud musical crash, and laughing heartily all the time.
"Why don't you get on with your work? Anyone would think you were in
training for a cat-gut scraper at a low theatre instead of for an
officer and a gentleman."
"Mark, old chap," said Sir Richard, good-humouredly, as, with rather a
rueful look, he picked up his broken model, "every man to his taste. I
like music; you like dogs."
"Yes; and they make a precious sight better music than ever you do.
Soldier! Pooh! You haven't the heart of a cockroach in you. Thank
goodness, you'll soon have to do your exam. That'll open your eyes, and
I shall be glad of it. If I were you, I'd try for an engagement in a
band somewhere, for you'll never get a commission."
"Perhaps not," said Sir Richard, quietly. "But what's the matter with
you, old chap? Been having a row with Draycott?"
"Draycott's a bumptious, pedantic old fool. Fancies he knows
everything. A brute!"
"Take a couple of pills, Mark; your liver's out of order."
"Put an angel's liver out of order to be here! I won't put up with much
more of it, and so I'll tell him. I shall dress as I like, and do as I
like, even if I haven't got a handle to my name. Sir Richard, indeed!--
a pattern for me to follow! Next time the fat old idiot say's that to
me, I'll throw the books at his head."
"Oh, that's it, is it?"
"Yes; that's it, is it!" cried Mark Frayne in an angry tone. "I tell
you I'm sick of it!"
"Nonsense! What had you been doing?" said Richard, fighting down a
feeling of resentment, and looking smilingly at his cousin.
"What's that to you?" growled Mark.
"Not much; but I wanted to help the lame dog over the stile."
"Look here," cried Mark, fiercely; "none of that. If you want to insult
me, say so right out, and then I shall know what you mean. None of your
covert allusions."
Richard Frayne laughed outright, and his cousin took a step forward
menacingly.
"Why, what has come to you?" cried the former. "Don't be so peppery. I
want to help you, if I can."
"Do you?" cried Mark, eagerly. "There, I'm sorry I spoke so sharply.
That brute Simpson has been writing to Draycott."
"Simpson, the tailor? What has he got to write about?"
Mark Frayne scowled, and gave a kick out with his leg, but did not
answer.
"Have you been running a bill with him?"
Mark nodded.
"Then why don't you pay it?"
"Why don't I pay it?" snarled Mark. "Am I a baronet with plenty of
money?"
"No; but you have as good an allowance as I. You ought to be able to
pay your tailor's bill."
"'Tisn't a bill for clothes," said Mark, sulkily, and he picked up a
book, opened it, and threw it impatiently across the room, making his
cousin wince a little.
"What then? Surely you haven't been such a fool as to borrow money of
him?"
"Yes, I have been such a fool as to borrow money of him," cried Mark,
savagely. "I couldn't help being short; he offered it to me, and, of
course, I took it. So would you."
"No, I shouldn't," said Richard, quietly. "He did write to offer me
money once--when I first came, and I refused it, and haven't been in his
shop since."
"But then we're not all such good young men as you are, Dick," sneered
Mark. "I did take it, and the brute has been running up interest and
renewing, as he calls it, and gammoning me into ordering fresh clothes.
He made this beastly jacket, and all sorts of things that don't fit; and
now, because I'm not ready to pay his swindling bill and the wretched
paper, he has been threatening, and ended by writing to old Draycott."
"Pay him then, and have done with him."
"Will you help me?"
"Of course, if I can."
"If you can! Why, you can, if you like."
"I don't know about that," said the other, good-humouredly; "I've been
spending a good deal of money in music things lately."
"Bosh! you can get me out of the hole, if you like."
"How much do you owe him?"
Mark threw the end of his cigarette with all his force into the
fireplace, and ground his teeth for a few moments before muttering
between them--
"Eighty-four pounds, or so!"
"What?"
"Eighty-four pounds," snarled Mark. "Do you want me to shout it for
everyone to know?"
"But how could you get into his debt to that extent?"
"Didn't I tell you, stupid? Half of it was lent, and I gave him an
I.O.U., and he has been piling it up somehow. I don't know what he has
done. He was civil and smooth as butter till he had me tight, and now
he's showing his teeth."
"But he would not have written to Draycott unless you had been
disagreeable to him."
"Oh! wouldn't he? He threatened to a year ago, when it wasn't so much.
It was when he found out I'd been getting some togs from London. I
expect he pumped it out of that idiot Jerry Brigley. But I'm not going
to sit here exposing my affairs. Will you help me to get out of the
hole?"