“Can I have a cup of tea?”
Mrs. Jericho rose like a sultana, and with a cold dignity, and in deep searching tones, that made Jericho wince in the sheets, said—“Of course, Mr. Jericho; you are master in your own house. Of course, you can have a cup of tea.” And with this assurance, Mrs. Jericho slowly swept from her profaned bed-room.
“Well, and what does the old felon say? The scaly old griffin! What’s he got to answer for himself?”
A young gentleman close upon one of the privileges of legal manhood—the privilege of going to prison for his own debts—put this sudden question to Mrs. Jericho, on her instant return to the drawing-room, from the interview narrated above.
“Come, what is it? Will he give me the money? In a word,” asked the hurried youth, “will he go into the melting-pot like a man and a father?”
“My dear Basil, you mustn’t ask me,” replied Mrs. Jericho to her emphatic first-born.
“Oh, mustn’t I, though?” cried Basil. “It’s as little as I can do. Ha! you don’t know the lot of people that’s asking me. Bless you! they ask a hundred times to my once. Well, will old Jericho tip the loyalty? Did you give him my sentiment, mother, eh? Money—money’s like the air you breathe; if you have it not you die. Have you brought me the beggarly allowance?—If I don’t blush a hole in my cheek to take it! It’s disgusting. A hundred a year! Not enough to keep a blind man in dogs.”
“My dear Basil, where do you imbibe such extraordinary parallels?” asked Mrs. Jericho; and with her eyes feeding upon the knowing, impudent face of the young man, she affectionately adjusted his cravat. “What a careless child you are—I’m sure you don’t take care of yourself.”
“First make it worth my while, mother. Care! What’s the use of buttoning an empty pocket? But about this worse half of yours; this supernumerary father of mine. Only wished I’d ha’ guessed what he’s turned out. Little as I was, I’d ha’ forbid the banns—I would—if I’d jumped upon a three-legged stool to do it.”