Peter’s father heard them laughing and was annoyed. His night had been restless. He was still more irritated when, on entering the stable, he found Ocky with his arm round Peter’s shoulder. In the sunlight he saw at a glance how his cousin had deteriorated. His gait was more slouchy, his expression more furtive, his teeth more broken with constant biting on the pipe. His attempts at smartness—the soaped mustaches and the dusty spats—were wretchedly offensive; they were so ineffectually pretentious.
The weak man’s hand commenced to fumble in his pocket as Barrington’s eyes searched him.
“Where’s my baccy? Must have dropped it. Seen my pouch anywhere, Peter?”
“It’s in your hand, uncle.” Peter went off into a peal of laughter.
“Surely you can do without smoking till after breakfast.”
Peter’s laugh stopped, cut short by the sternness in his father’s voice.
In his study, an hour later, Barrington asked, “You’re sure there’s nothing else? There’s no good in my giving you anything unless you make a clean breast to me. And mind, this is absolutely the last time I save you. From this moment you’ve got to go on your own.”
“On my honor, Billy, there’s nothing.”
Ocky had a constitutional weakness for lies; so he told one now when it hindered his purpose.
Barrington eyed him doubtfully. “If you’ve not told me the truth, Jehane shall know all.”