“That’s about the size of it,” observed Rawton. “There’s a bit of mystery about the Dandy. He came from a good stock, so I’ve been given to understand, and the woman who has just left is his mother.”
“Tell us all about it, Bill,” exclaimed several. “You aint the man to keep anything from your pals.”
“I don’t know as I’ve anything to tell you,” said Bill Rawton.
“Ah, gammon an’ all,” exclaimed the sporting man, “but if you are making up to the young and fascinating widow, and the matter is of a private nature, vell, in course ve won’t ax any further questions.”
“Shut up,” cried Rawton. “Making up to her! You must be going off your nut to be a-talking in that way.”
“Ah vell, I’m sorry I spoke.”
At this last observation there was a loud peal of laughter.
“You’ve got yer chaffing togs on to-day, it would seem,” observed the gipsy. “But there aint no secret in the case. The woman, as I said afore, is the mother of the Dandy—leastways that’s what I believe, and I don’t see any reason to doubt what she says. She’s been on to me for ever so long to find him for her. You know, all on yer, that he aint now on good terms with Laura Stanbridge; why or wherefore this is I don’t rightly know, and, as yer all know, he hasn’t shown up of late.”
“He’s got a precious sight too proud to mix with any of us. He was allers a la-de-da stuck up young shaver,” remarked the man with the white comforter, “and wasn’t at any time quite my book. But that’s neither here nor there. He’s mizzled, turned tail, and keeps aristocratic company—so I’ve been told—and much good may it do him—but go on. The old woman wants to find him. I hope as how he’s come into a fortune.”
“And if he has he’ll spend it jolly quick,” said Cooney.