“No, they’re wrong—that’s a bad shot. I don’t mind telling you, old pal, that I’m a chauffeur.”
His friend stared, and then burst out into a roar of laughter.
“Yes, I’m the chauffeur of the well-known Tottie Toye.”
This information seemed to leave the other not only solemn, but speechless—which being the case, Wynyard went on to impart to him in confidence all the particulars of his uncle’s manifesto, and how he was endeavouring to keep himself in independence, without as much as a penny stamp from one of his relatives.
“I’ve done eight months,” he said, “and I’ve saved thirty pounds. I seem to see the Winning Post.”
“By George!” exclaimed his friend, “I don’t know how you can stick it. Fancy being mixed up with Tottie and her crowd!”
“Oh, for that matter, I’ve nothing to say to them. ‘Needs must when the devil drives,’ and the pay is good.”
“I believe Tottie has a mania for spending money. She has been twice married; her extravagance is crazy, and her generosity boundless—of course, she is robbed all round. Now she has got into the hands of a fellow called Cloake—and unless I’m mistaken the end is near. Get out of it as soon as you can, Wynyard, my friend.”
“I believe I shall. I can’t say it’s a job I fancy.”
“Look here, I’ve an idea. There’s a friend of mine—Masham—an enormously rich chap, a bachelor, mad keen about motoring—racing, you know. He was in the Paris to Berlin race—and has been over to Long Island—and on the slightest provocation would be off to Timbuctoo! He’s looking for a man, not so much to drive—but, of course, he must be a chauffeur—as to go about with him—a gentleman. I should say it was the very billet for you—if he doesn’t kill you! It’s not every one’s job; he is so confoundedly rash, and is always ready to take risks.”