Dill groaned over a portrait which to him was a photograph.
“I 'll see to this, dear lady. This shall be looked into,” muttered he, with the purpose of a man who pledged himself to a course of action; and with this he moved on. Nor had he gone many paces from the spot when he heard the sound of voices, at first in some confusion, but afterwards clearly and distinctly.
“I 'll be hanged if I 'd do it, Tom,” cried the loud voice of Conyers. “It's all very fine talking about paternal authority and all that, and so long as one is a boy there's no help for it; but you and I are men. We have a right to be treated like men, have n't we?”
“I suppose so,” muttered the other, half sulkily, and not exactly seeing what was gained by the admission.
“Well, that being so,” resumed Conyers, “I'd say to the governor, 'What allowance are you going to make me?'”
“Did you do that with your father?” asked Tom, earnestly.
“No, not exactly,” stammered out the other. “There was not, in fact, any need for it, for my governor is a rare jolly fellow,—such a trump! What he said to me was, 'There's a check-book, George; don't spare it.'”
“Which was as much as to say, 'Draw what you like.'”
“Yes, of course. He knew, in leaving it to my honor, there was no risk of my committing any excess; so you see there was no necessity to make my governor 'book up.' But if I was in your place I 'd do it. I pledge you my word I would.”
Tom only shook his head very mournfully, and made no answer. He felt, and felt truly, that there is a worldly wisdom learned only in poverty and in the struggles of narrow fortune, of which the well-to-do know absolutely nothing. Of what avail to talk to him of an unlimited credit, or a credit to be bounded only by a sense of honor? It presupposed so much that was impossible, that he would have laughed if his heart had been but light enough.