CHAPTER IX
Black Spots
"The Avon bears to endless years
A magic voice along,
Where Shakespeare strayed in Stratford's shade,
And waked the world to song.
We heard the music soft and wild,
We thrilled to pulses new;
The winds that reared the Avon's child
Were Herga's[28] nurses too."
That evening John told Cæsar what Warde had said to him, and then added, "I mean to have a shot at 'the Swan of Avon.'" Cæsar looked glum.
"But how about the remove? We'd agreed to stay in the Second Fifth till Christmas. It's the jolliest form in the school."
"If we put our backs—and heads—into Trials,[29] we can easily get a remove."
"Blow Trials."
John turned aside.
"Look here, Jonathan," said Cæsar, eagerly. "To please me, give up your swatting scheme. We can't spoil the end of this jolly term."
He caught hold of John's arm, squeezing it affectionately. Never had our hero been so sorely tempted.
"We must stick together, you and I," entreated Desmond.
"No," said John.
"As you please," Cæsar replied coldly.
A detestable week followed. John tackled his Shakespeare alone, working doggedly. Then, quite suddenly, the giant gripped him. He had always possessed a remarkable memory, and as a child he had learnt by heart many passages out of the plays (a fact well known to the crafty Warde); but these he had swallowed without digesting them. Now he became keen, the keener because he met with violent opposition from the Caterpillar and the Duffer, who were of opinion that Shakespeare was a "back number."
John won the prize, and on the following Speech Day saw his mother's face radiant with pride and happiness, as he received the Medal from the Head Master's hands.
"You look as pleased as if I'd got my Flannels," said John.
"Surely this Medal is a greater thing?"
"Oh, mum, you don't know much about boys."
"Perhaps not, but," her eyes twinkled, "I know something about Shakespeare, and he's a friend that will stand by you when cricketing days are over."
"If you're pleased, so am I," said John.
Scaife got his Flannels; and at Lord's his fielding was mentioned as the finest ever seen in a Public School match. John witnessed the game from the top of the Trent coach, and he stopped at Trent House. But he didn't enjoy his exeat, because he knew that Cæsar was in trouble. Cæsar owed Scaife thirteen pounds, and the fact that this debt could not be paid without confession to his father was driving him distracted. Scaife, it is true, laughed genially at Cæsar's distress. "Settle when you please," he said, "but for Heaven's sake, don't peach to your governor! Mine would laugh and pay up; yours will pay up and make you swear not to touch another card while you're at Harrow."
"Just what he will do," Cæsar told John.
"And the best thing that could happen," John said bluntly. "If you don't cut loose now, it will be much worse next term."
"Rot," Desmond had replied. "I'm paying the usual bill for learning a difficult game. That's how the Demon puts it. But I've a turn for bridge, and now I can hold my own. I'm better than Beaumont-Greene, and quite as good as Lovell. The Demon, of course, is in another class."
"And therefore he oughtn't to play with you. It's robbery."
"Now you're talking bosh."
The Eton and Harrow match ended in another draw. Time and Scaife's fielding saved Harrow from defeat. The fact of a draw had significance. A draw spelled compromise. John had indulged in a superstitious fancy common enough to persons older than he. "If Harrow wins," he put it to himself, "Cæsar will triumph; if Eton wins, Cæsar will lose." When the match proved a draw, John drew the conclusion that his pal would "funk" telling the truth; an apprehension presently confirmed.
"I didn't tell the governor," said Cæsar, when John and he met. "My eldest brother, Hugo, is coming home, and I shall screw it out of him. He's a good sort, and he's going to marry a girl who is simply rolling. He'll fork out, I know he will. I feel awfully cheery."
"I don't," said John.
He had good reason to fear that Cæsar and he were drifting apart. Now he worked by himself. And his voice had broken. A small thing this, but John was sensible that his singing voice touched corners in Cæsar's soul to which his speaking voice never penetrated. More, Cæsar and he had agreed to differ upon points of conscience other than card-playing. And every point of conscientious difference increases the distance between true friends in geometrical progression. Poor Jonathan!
But we have his grateful testimony that Warde stood by him. And Warde made him see life at Harrow (and beyond) in a new light. Warde, indeed, decomposed the light into primary colours, a sort of experiment in moral chemistry, and not without fascination for an intelligent boy. Sometimes, it became difficult to follow Warde—members of the Alpine Club said that often it was impossible—because he jumped where others crawled. And he clipped words, phrases, thoughts so uncommonly short.
"You're beginning to see, Verney, eh? Scales crumbling away, my boy. And strong sunshine hurts the eyes—at first. Black spots are dancing before you. I know the little devils."
Or again—
"This remove will wipe a bit more off the debt, won't it? Ha, ha! I've made you reckon up what you owe Mrs. Verney. But there are others——"
"I'm awfully grateful to you, sir."
"Never mind me."
"What do you mean, sir?"
"New Testament; Matthew; twenty-fifth chapter—I forget verse.[30] Look it up. Christ answers your question. Make life easier and happier for some of the new boys. Pass on gratitude. Set it a-rolling. See?"
John had appetite for such talk, but Warde never gave much of it—half a dozen sentences, a smile, a nod of the head, a keen look, and a striding off elsewhere. But when John repeated what Warde had said to Cæsar, that young gentleman looked uneasy.
"Warde means well," he said; "and he's doing wonders with the Manor, but I hope he's not going to make a sort of tin parson of you?"
"As if he could!" said John.
"You're miles ahead of me, Jonathan."
"No, no."
"I say—yes."
"Cæsar," said John, in desperation, "perhaps we are sliding apart, but it isn't my fault, indeed it isn't. And think what it means to—me. You've heaps of friends, and I never was first, I know that. You can do without me, but I can't do without you."
"Dear old Jonathan." Cæsar held out his hand, smiling.
"I'm a jealous ass, Cæsar. And, as for calling me a parson," he laughed scornfully, "why, I'd sooner walk with you, even if you were the worst sinner in the world, than with any saint that ever lived."
The feeling in John's voice drove Cæsar's gay smile from his face. Did he realize, possibly, for the first time, that if John and he remained friends, he might drag John down? Suddenly his face brightened.
"Jonathan," he said gravely, "to please you, I'll not touch a card again this term, and we'll have such good times these last three weeks that you'll forget the rest of it."
"And what delights can equal those
That stir the spirit's inner deeps,
When one that loves but knows not reaps
A truth from one that loves and knows?"
The Manor played in the cock-house match at cricket, being but barely beaten by Damer's. Everybody admitted that this glorious state of affairs was due to Warde's coaching of the weaker members of the Eleven. Scaife fielded brilliantly, and John, watching him, said to himself that at such times the Demon was irresistible. Warde invited the Eleven to dinner, and spoke of nothing but football, much to every one's amusement.
"He's right," said the Caterpillar; "we're not cock-house at cricket this year, but we may be at footer."
John spent his holidays abroad with his mother, and when the School reassembled, he found himself in the First Fifth alone. With satisfaction he reflected that this was Lovell's last term, and Beaumont-Greene's, too. Warde said a few words at first lock-up.
"We are going to be cock-house at footer, I hope," he began, "and next term Scaife will show the School what he can do at racquets; but I want more. I'm a glutton. How about work, eh? Lot o' slacking last term. Is it honest? You fellows cost your people a deal of money. And it's well spent, if, if you tackle everything in school life as you tackled Mr. Damer's last July. That's all."
"He's giving you what he gave me," said John.
"Good fellow, Warde," observed the Caterpillar; "in his room every night after prayers to mug up his form work."
"What?" Murmurs of incredulity.
"Fact, 'pon my word. And he never refuses a 'con' to a fellow who wants it."
"He's paid for it," sneered Scaife.
The other boys nodded; enthusiasm was chilled. Yes, of course Warde was paid for it. John caught Scaife's eye.
"You don't believe that he's in love with his job, as he told us?"
"Skittles—that!"
John looked solemn. He had a bomb to throw.
"Skittles, is it?" he echoed. The other boys turned to listen. "Do you think he'd take a better paid billet?"
Scaife laughed derisively. "Of course he would, like a shot. But he's not likely to get the chance."
"He has just been offered the Head Mastership of Wellborough. It's worth about four thousand a year."
"Pooh! who told you that?"
"Cæsar's father."
"It's true," said Cæsar.
"And he refused it," said John, triumphantly.
"Then he's a fool," said Scaife, angrily. He marched out of the room, slamming the door. But the Manor, as a corporate body, when it heard of Warde's refusal to accept promotion, was profoundly impressed. Thus the term began with good resolutions upon the part of the better sort.
Very soon, however, with the shortening days, bridge began again. John made no protest, afraid of losing his pal. He called himself coward, and considered the expediency of learning bridge, so as to be in the same boat with Cæsar. Cæsar told him that he had not asked his brother Hugo for the thirteen pounds. Hugo, it seemed, had come back from Teheran with a decoration and the air of an ambassador. He spoke of his "services."
"I knew that Hugo would make me swear not to play again," said Cæsar to John, "and naturally I want to get some of the plunder back. I am getting it back. I raked thirty bob out of Beaumont-Greene last night."
John said nothing.
Presently it came to his ears that Cæsar was getting more plunder back. The Caterpillar, an agreeable gossip, because he condemned nothing except dirt and low breeding, told John that Beaumont-Greene was losing many shekels. And about the middle of October Cæsar said to John—
"What do you think, old Jonathan? I've jolly nearly paid off the Demon. And you wanted me to chuck the thing. Nice sort of counsellor."
"Beaumont-Greene must have lost a pot?"
"You bet," said Cæsar; "but that doesn't keep me awake at night. He has got the Imperishable Seamless Whaleskin Boot behind him."
Next time John met Beaumont-Greene he eyed him sharply. The big fellow was pulpier than ever; his complexion the colour of skilly. Yes; he looked much worried. Perhaps the "Imperishable Boot" lasted too long. And, nowadays, so many fellows wore shoes. Thus John to himself.
Beaumont-Greene, indeed, not only looked worried, he was worried, hideously worried, and with excellent reason. He had an absurdly, wickedly, large allowance, but not more than a sovereign of it was left. More, he owed Scaife twenty pounds, and Lovell another ten. Both these young gentlemen had hinted plainly that they wanted to see their money.
"I must have the stuff now," said Lovell, when Beaumont-Greene asked for time. "I'm going to shoot a lot this Christmas, and the governor makes me pay for my cartridges."
"So does mine," said Scaife, grinning. He was quite indifferent to the money, but he liked to see Beaumont-Greene squirm. He continued suavely, "You ought to settle before you leave. Ain't your people in Rome? Yes. And you're going to join 'em. Why, hang it, some Dago may stick a knife into you, and where should we be then—hey? Your governor wouldn't settle a gambling debt, would he?"
This was too true. Scaife grinned diabolically. He knew that Beaumont-Greene's father was endeavouring to establish a credit-account with the Recording Angel. Originally a Nonconformist, he had joined the Church of England after he had made his fortune (cf. Shavings from the Workshops of our Merchant Princes, which appeared in the pages of "Prattle"). Then, the famous inventor of the Imperishable Boot had taken to endowing churches; and he published pamphlets denouncing drink and gambling, pamphlets sent to his son at Harrow, who (with an eye to backsheesh) had praised his sire's prose somewhat indiscreetly.
"You shall have your confounded money," said Beaumont-Greene, violently.
"Thanks," said Scaife, sweetly. "When we asked you to join us" (slight emphasis on the "us"), "we knew that we could rely on you to settle promptly."
The Demon grinned for the third time, knowing that he had touched a weak spot; not a difficult thing to do, if you touched the big fellow at all. A young man of spirit would have told his creditors to go to Jericho. Beaumont-Greene might have said, "You have skinned me a bit. I don't whine about that; I mean to pay up; but you'll have to wait till I have the money. I'm stoney now." Scaife and Lovell must have accepted this as an ultimatum. But Beaumont-Greene's wretched pride interfered. He had posed as a sort of Golden Youth. To confess himself pinchbeck seemed an unspeakable humiliation.
Men have been known to take to drink under the impending sword of dishonour. Beaumont-Greene swallowed instead large quantities of food at the Creameries; and then wrote to his father, saying that he would like to have a cheque for thirty pounds by return of post. He was leaving Harrow, he pointed out, and he wished to give his friends some handsome presents. Young Desmond, for instance, the great Minister's son, had been kind to him (Beaumont-Greene prided himself upon this touch), and Scaife, too, he was under obligations to Scaife, who would be a power by-and-by, and so forth.... To confess frankly that he owed thirty pounds gambled away at cards required more cheek than our stout youth possessed. His father refused to play bridge on principle, because he could never remember how many trumps were out.
The father answered by return of post, but enclosed no cheque. He pointed out to his dear Thomas that giving handsome presents with another's money was an objectionable habit. Thomas received a large, possibly too large an allowance. He must exercise self-denial, if he wished to make presents. His quarterly allowance would be paid as usual next Christmas, and not a minute before. There would be time then to reconsider the propriety of giving young Desmond a suitable gift....
Common sense told Beaumont-Greene to show this letter to Scaife and Lovell. But he saw the Demon's derisive grin, and recoiled from it.
At this moment temptation seized him relentlessly. Beaumont-Greene never resisted temptation. For fun, so he put it, he would write the sort of letter which his father ought to have written, and which would have put him at his ease. It ran thus—
"My Dear Thomas,
"No doubt you will want to give some leaving presents, and a spread or two. I should like my son to do the thing handsomely. You know better than I how much this will cost, but I am prepared to send you, say, twenty-five or thirty pounds for such a purpose. Or, you can have the bills sent to me.
"With love,
"Your affectionate father,
"George Beaumont-Greene."
Beaumont-Greene, like the immortal Mr. Toots, rather fancied himself as a letter-writer. The longer he looked at his effusion, the more he liked it. His handwriting was not unlike his father's—modelled, indeed, upon it. With a little careful manipulation of a few letters——!
The day was cold, but Beaumont-Greene suddenly found himself in a perspiration. None the less, it seemed easier to forge a letter than to avow himself penniless. Detection? Impossible! Two or three tradesmen in Harrow would advance the money if he showed them this letter. Next Christmas they would be paid. Within a quarter of an hour he made up his mind to cross the Rubicon, and crossed it with undue haste. He forged the letter, placed it in an envelope which had come from Rome, and went to his tailor's.
Under pretext of looking at patterns, he led the man aside.
"You can do me a favour," he began, in his usual, heavy, hesitating manner.
"With pleasure," said the tradesman, smiling. Then, seeing an opportunity, he added, "You are leaving Harrow, Mr. Beaumont-Greene, but I trust, sir, you will not take your custom with you. We have always tried to please you."
Beaumont-Greene, in his turn, saw opportunity.
"Yes, yes," he answered. Then he produced the letter, envelope and all. "I have here a letter from my father, who is in Rome. I'll read it to you. No; you can read it yourself."
The tailor read the letter.
"Very handsome," he replied; "very handsome indeed, sir. Your father is a true gentleman."
"It happens," said Beaumont-Greene, more easily, for the thing seemed to be simpler than he had anticipated—"it happens that I do want to make some presents, but I'm not going to buy them here. I shall send to the Stores, you know. I have their catalogue."
"Just so, sir. Excellent place the Stores for nearly everything; except, perhaps, my line."
"I should not think of buying clothes there. But at the Stores one must pay cash. I've not got the cash, and my father is in Rome. I should like to have the money to-day, if possible. Will you oblige me?"
The tradesman hesitated. In the past there have been grave scandals connected with lending money to boys. And Harrow tradesmen are at the mercy of the Head Master. If a school-tailor be put out of bounds, he can put up his shutters at once. Still——
"I'll let you have the money," said the man, eyeing Beaumont-Greene keenly.
"Thanks."
The tailor observed a slight flush and a sudden intake of breath—signs which stirred suspicion.
"Will you take it in notes, sir?"
Here Beaumont-Greene made his first blunder. He had an ill-defined idea that paper was dangerous stuff.
"In gold, please."
He forgot that gold is not easily sent in a letter. The tailor hesitated, but he had gone too far to back out.
"Very well, sir. I have not twenty-five pounds——"
"Thirty, if you please. I shall want thirty."
"I have not quite that amount here, but I can get it."
When the man came back with a small canvas bag in his hand, Beaumont-Greene had pocketed the letter. He received the money, counted it, thanked the tailor, and turned to go.
"If you please, sir——"
"Yes?"
"I should like to keep your father's letter, sir. As a form of receipt, sir. When you settle I'll return it. If—if anything should happen to—to you, sir, where would I be?"
Beaumont-Greene's temper showed itself.
"You all talk as if I was on my death-bed," he said.
The tailor stared. Others, then, had suggested to this large, unwholesome youth the possibility of premature decease.
"Not at all, sir, but we do live in the valley of shadders. My wife's step-father, as fine and hearty a specimen as you'd wish to see, sir, was taken only last month; at breakfast, too, as he was chipping his third egg."
Beaumont-Greene said loftily, "Blow your wife's step-father and his third egg. Here's the letter."
He flung down the letter and marched out of the shop. The tradesman looked at him, shaking his head. "He'll never come back," he muttered. "I know his sort too well." Then, business happening to be slack, he re-read the letter before putting it away. Then he whistled softly and read it for the third time, frowning and biting his lips. The "Beaumont-Greene" in the signature and on the envelope did not look to be written by the same hand.
"There's something fishy here," muttered the tradesman. "I must show this to Amelia."
It was his habit to consult his wife in emergencies. The chief cutter and two assistants said that Amelia was the power behind the throne. Amelia read the letter, listened to what her husband had to say, stared hard at the envelope, and delivered herself—
"The hand that wrote the envelope never wrote the letter, that's plain—to me. Now, William, you've got me and the children to think of. This may mean the loss of our business, and worse, too. You put on your hat and go straight to the Manor. Mr. Warde's a gentleman, and I don't think he'll let me and the children suffer for your foolishness. Don't you wait another minute."
Nor did he.
After prayers that night, Warde asked Beaumont-Greene to come to his study. Beaumont-Greene obeyed, smiling blandly. Within three weeks he was leaving; doubtless Warde wanted to say something civil. The big fellow was feeling quite himself. He had paid Scaife and Lovell, not without a little pardonable braggadocio.
"You fellows have put me to some inconvenience," he said. "I make it a rule not to run things fine, but after all thirty quid is no great sum. Here you are."
"We don't want to drive you into the workhouse," said Scaife. "Thanks. Give you your revenge any time. I dare say between now and the end of the term you'll have most of it back."
Warde asked Beaumont-Greene to sit down in a particular chair, which faced the light from a large lamp. Then he took up an envelope. Suddenly cold chills trickled down Beaumont-Greene's spine. He recognized the envelope. That scoundrel had betrayed him. Not for a moment, however, did he suppose that the forgery had been detected.
"On the strength of this letter," said Warde, gravely, "you borrowed thirty pounds from a tradesman?"
Denial being fatuous, Beaumont-Greene said—
"Yes, sir."
"You know, I suppose, that Harrow tradesmen are expressly forbidden to lend boys money?"
"I am hardly a boy, sir. And—er—under the circumstances——"
"Ah—under the circumstances. Have you any objection to telling me the exact circumstances?"
"Not at all, sir. I wished to make some presents to my friends. I am going to give a large leaving-breakfast."
"Oh! Still, thirty pounds is a large sum——"
"Not to my father, sir. I—er—thought of coming to you, sir, with that letter."
"Did you?"
Warde took the letter from the envelope, and glanced at it with faint interest, so Beaumont-Greene thought. Then he picked up a magnifying glass and played with it. It was a trick of his to pick up objects on his desk, and turn them in his thin, nervous fingers. Beaumont-Greene was not seriously alarmed. He had great faith in a weapon which had served him faithfully, his lying tongue.
"Yes, sir. I thought you would be willing to advance the money for a few days, and then——"
"And then?"
"And then I thought I wouldn't bother you. It never occurred to me that I was getting a tradesman into trouble. I hope you won't be hard on him, sir."
"I shall not be hard on him," said Warde, "because"—for a moment his eyes flashed—"because he came to me and confessed his fault; but I won't deny that I gave him a very uncomfortable quarter of an hour. He sat in your chair."
Beaumont-Greene shuffled uneasily.
"Have you this thirty pounds in your pocket?" asked Warde, casually.
Beaumont-Greene began to regret his haste in settling.
"No, sir."
"Some of it?"
"None of it."
"You sent it to London? To buy these handsome presents?"
"You hadn't much time. Lock-up's early, and you received the money in gold. Did you buy Orders?"
Beaumont-Greene's head began to buzz. He found himself wondering why Warde was speaking in this smooth, quiet voice, so different from his usual curt, incisive tones.
"Yes, sir."
"At the Harrow post-office?"
"Yes, sir."
"Ah."
Again the house-master picked up the letter, but this time he didn't lay down the lens. Instead he used it, very deliberately. Beaumont-Greene shivered; with difficulty he clenched his teeth, so as to prevent them clicking like castanets. Then Warde held up the sheet of paper to the light of the lamp. Obviously he wished to examine the watermark. The paper was thin notepaper, the kind that is sold everywhere for foreign correspondence. Beaumont-Greene, economical in such matters, had bought a couple of quires when his people went abroad. The paper he had bought did not quite match the Roman envelope. Warde opened a drawer, from which he took some thin paper. This also he held up to the light.
"It's an odd coincidence," he said, tranquilly; "your father in Rome uses the same notepaper that I buy here. But the envelope is Italian?"
He spoke interrogatively, but the wretch opposite had lost the power of speech. He collapsed. Warde rose, throwing aside his quiet manner as if it were a drab-coloured cloak. Now he was himself, alert, on edge, sanguine.
"You fool!" he exclaimed; "you clumsy fool! Why, a child could find you out. And you—you have dared to play with such an edged tool as forgery. Now, do the one thing which is left to you: make a clean breast of it to me—at once."
In imposing this command, a command which he knew would be obeyed, inasmuch as he perceived that he dominated the weak, grovelling creature in front of him, Warde overlooked the possibility that this boy's confession might implicate other boys. Already he had formed in his mind a working hypothesis to account for this forged letter. The fellow, no doubt, was in debt to some Harrow townsman.
"For whom did you steal this money? To whom did you pay it to-day? Answer!"
And he was answered.
"I owed the money to Scaife and Lovell."
Then he told the story of the card-playing. At the last word he fell on his knees, blubbering.
"Get up," said Warde, sharply. "Pull yourself together if you can."
The master began to walk up and down the room, frowning and biting his lips. From time to time he glanced at Beaumont-Greene. Seeing his utter collapse, he rang the bell, answered by the ever-discreet Dumbleton.
"Dumbleton, take Mr. Beaumont-Greene to the sick-room. There is no one in it, I believe?"
"No, sir."
"You will fetch what he may require for the night; quietly, you understand."
"Very good, sir."
"Follow Dumbleton," Warde addressed Beaumont-Greene. "You will consider yourself under arrest. Your meals will be brought to you. You will hold no communication with anybody except Dumbleton and me; you will send no messages; you will write no notes. Do you hear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then go."
Dumbleton opened the door. Young man and servant passed out and into the passage beyond. Warde waited one moment, then he followed them into the passage; but instead of going upstairs, he paused for an instant with his fingers upon the handle of the door which led from the private side to the boys' quarters. He sighed as he passed through.
At this moment Lovell was sitting in his room alone with Scaife. They had no suspicion of what had taken place in the study. In the afternoon there had been a match with an Old Harrovian team, and both Scaife and Lovell had played for the School. But as yet neither had got his Flannels. As Warde passed through the private side door, Scaife was saying angrily—
"I believe Challoner" (Challoner was captain of the football Eleven and a monitor) "has a grudge against us. If we had a chance—and we had—of getting our Flannels last year, why isn't it a cert. this, eh?"
Lovell shrugged his shoulders.
"It is a cert.," he answered; "and you're right. Challoner doesn't like us, and it amuses him to keep us out of our just rights. The monitors know I detest 'em, and they don't think you're called the Demon for nothing. Challoner is more of a monitor than a footer-player. How about a rubber? There's just time."
"I don't mind."
Lovell went to the door and opened it.
"Bo-o-o-o-o-o-y!"
The familiar cry—that imperious call which makes an Harrovian feel himself master of more or less willing slaves—echoed through the house. Immediately the night-fag came running; it was not considered healthy to keep Lovell waiting.
"Ask Beaumont-Greene to come up here and——" He paused. Warde had just turned the corner, and was approaching. Lovell hesitated. Then he repeated what he had just said, with a slight variation for Warde's benefit. "Tell him I want to ask him a question about the house-subscriptions."
"Right," said the fag, bustling off.
Lovell waited to receive his house-master. He had very good manners.
"Can I do anything for you, sir?" he asked.
"Yes," said Warde, deliberately. He entered Lovell's room and looked at Scaife, who rose at once.
"I wish to speak with you alone, Lovell."
"Certainly, sir. Won't you sit down?"
Warde waited till Scaife had closed the door; then he said quietly—
"Lovell, does Beaumont-Greene owe you money?"