“Nobody. If they did I should suppose they spoke an untruth.”
“Look here,” said Bill Rawton, after a pause. “You want me to help you, and I aint the man to say no to such a request, but that is one thing. I may have the will, which, to say the truth, I have, but I have not the power, I know nothing about this young gentleman—no, nothing about Alf Purvis, or Mr. Algernon Sutherland, as he now calls himself. Let me give you a word of advice. Don’t trouble yourself about the young scapegrace. You wouldn’t be much benefitted by finding him.”
“But he is my son. Oh, sir, think of that.”
“I do think of it.”
“Well, what then?”
“He is better lost than found.”
“Have you so bad an opinion of him, then?”
“I have a very bad opinion of him.”
“I dare say he has become hardened, and, as a natural consequence, is despised by many of his associates.”
“I am not one of his associates. Please to understand that,” said Bill Rawton, “I never cared anything about him—a stuck-up conceited jackanapes. I tell you frankly, I would never have anything to say to him—‘cause why?—he wasn’t my sort.”