“Yes, Nan?”
“So I went to Caroline. She was easy enough; and she went to the Countess.”
“Well, and she—?”
“She was willing, too, till Lady Jocelyn came and took Miss Bonner home to Beckley, and because Evan had written to my lady to fetch her the Countess she was angry. That was all. Because of that, you know. But yet she agreed. But when Miss Bonner was gone, it turned out that the Major was the obstacle. They were all willing enough to have Evan there, but the Major refused. I didn’t hear him. I wasn’t going to ask him. I mayn’t be a match for three women, but man to man, eh, Tom? You’d back me there? So Harry said the Major’d make Caroline miserable, if his wishes were disrespected. By jingo! I wish I’d known, then. Don’t you think it odd, Tom, now! There’s a Duke of Belfield the fellow had hooked into his Company; and—through Evan I heard—the Duke had his name struck off. After that, the Major swore at the Duke once or twice, and said Caroline wasn’t to go out with him. Suddenly he insists that she shall go. Days the poor thing kept crying! One day, he makes her go. She hasn’t the spirit of my Harry, or the Countess. By good luck, Van, who was hunting ferns for some friends of his, met them on Sunday in Richmond Park, and Van took her away from the Duke. But, Tom, think of Van seeing a fellow watching her wherever she went, and hearing the Duke’s coachman tell that fellow he had orders to drive his master and a lady hard on to the sea that night. I don’t believe it—it wasn’t Caroline! But what do you think of our finding out that beast of a spy to be in the Major’s pay? We did. Van put a constable on his track; we found him out, and he confessed it. A fact, Tom! That decided me. If it was only to get rid of a brute, I determined I’d do it; and I did. Strike came to me to get my name for a bill that night. ’Gad, he looked blanker than his bill, when he heard of us two bankrupt. I showed him one or two documents I’d got ready. Says he: ‘Never mind; it’ll only be a couple of hundred more in the schedule. Stop, Tom! he’s got some of our blood. I don’t think he meant it. He is hard pushed. Well, I gave him a twentier, and he was off the next night. You’ll soon see all about the Company in the papers.’”
At the conclusion of Andrew’s recital, Old Tom thrummed and looked on the floor under a heavy frown. His mouth worked dubiously, and, from moment to moment, he plucked at his waistcoat and pulled it down, throwing back his head and glaring.
“I’ve knocked that fellow over once,” he said. “Wish he hadn’t got up again.”
Andrew nodded.
“One good thing, Nan. He never boasted of our connection. Much obliged to him.”
“Yes,” said Andrew, who was gladly watching Old Tom’s change of mood with a quiescent aspect.
“’Um!—must keep it quiet from his poor old mother.”
Andrew again affirmatived his senior’s remarks. That his treatment of Old Tom was sound, he presently had proof of. The latter stood up, and after sniffing in an injured way for about a minute, launched out his right leg, and vociferated that he would like to have it in his power to kick all the villains out of the world: a modest demand Andrew at once chimed in with; adding that, were such a faculty extended to him, he would not object to lose the leg that could benefit mankind so infinitely, and consented to its following them. Then, Old Tom, who was of a practical turn, meditated, swung his foot, and gave one grim kick at the imaginary bundle of villains, discharged them headlong straight into space. Andrew, naturally imitative, and seeing that he had now to kick them flying, attempted to excel Old Tom in the vigour of his delivery. No wonder that the efforts of both were heating: they were engaged in the task of ridding the globe of the larger half of its inhabitants. Tom perceived Andrew’s useless emulation, and, with a sound translated by “yack,” sent his leg out a long way. Not to be out-done, Andrew immediately, with a still louder “yack,” committed himself to an effort so violent that the alternative between his leg coming off, or his being taken off his leg, was propounded by nature, and decided by the laws of gravity in a trice. Joyful grunts were emitted by Old Tom at the sight of Andrew prostrate, rubbing his pate. But Mrs. Sockley, to whom the noise of Andrew’s fall had suggested awful fears of a fratricidal conflict up-stairs, hurried forthwith to announce to them that the sovereign remedy for human ills, the promoter of concord, the healer of feuds, the central point of man’s destiny in the flesh,—Dinner was awaiting them.
To the dinner they marched.
Of this great festival be it simply told that the supply was copious and of good quality—much too good and copious for a bankrupt host: that Evan and Mr. John Raikes were formally introduced to old Tom before the repast commenced, and welcomed some three minutes after he had decided the flavour of his first glass: that Mr. John Raikes in due time preferred his petition for release, and furnished vast amusement to the company under old Tom’s hand, until by chance he quoted a scrap of Latin, at which the brothers Cogglesby, who would have faced peers and princes without being disconcerted or performing mental genuflexions, shut their mouths and looked injured, unhappy, and in the presence of a superior: Mr. John Raikes not being the man to spare them. Moreover, a surprise was afforded to Evan. Andrew stated to Old Tom that the hospitality of Main Street, Lymport, was open to him. Strange to say, Old Tom accepted it on the spot, observing, “You’re master of the house—can do what you like, if you’re man enough,” and adding that he thanked him, and would come in a day or two. The case of Mr. John Raikes was still left uncertain, for as the bottle circulated, he exhibited such a faculty for apt, but to the brothers totally incomprehensible quotation, that they fled from him without leaving him time to remember what special calamity was on his mind, or whether this earth was other than an abode conceived in great jollity for his life-long entertainment.
