“Oh, all right; in one of your old scrapes, my boy! Money scarce! Ha ha!” and he laughed hysterically. “So you’re lying doggo from the Soucars, but why here?”
“That’s my business,” he answered sharply.
“Come, come, don’t be so grumpy and short with me, Owen. You were always such a rare good-tempered chap. What has changed you, eh? Now, come along home with me, and we will have a good ‘bukh’ over old times,” and, as he spoke, his grasp—a fierce, possessive clutch—tightened painfully on his prisoner’s arm.
“But,” objected the victim, “I was going for a turn.”
“No, you are not; you are coming straight home with me. My wife will be glad to make your acquaintance. I forget if you’ve met her?” and he touched his forehead. “I’m a little funny here, Owen. India, my boy! she takes it out of all of us one way or another—teeth, hair, liver, brains. Come on now—right about turn!” he concluded facetiously.
There was no use in resistance or in having a violent personal struggle with the lunatic—nothing for it but to submit; and, in spite of his reluctance, Wynyard was conducted, as if in custody, right up to the door of Ivy House. Were he to refuse to enter, he knew there would only be a scene in the street, a gaping crowd, and an unpleasant exposure.
“Look, look, Tom!” cried Mrs. Hogben, pointing to the opposite house, “if the captain hasn’t got hold of our young fellow, and a-walkin’ him home as if he had him in charge—he has took a fancy to him, I do declare!”
“There’s more nor one has took a fancy to Owen,” remarked Tom, with gruff significance; “but, as to the captain—well—I’d rather it was him—nor me.”
The captain entered his house with a latchkey and an air of importance; there was a light in the square hall, and a door at one side was ajar. He called out—
“Katie, Katie, come and see what I have found for you!”