“Look here, young fellow,” Jacob observed, when his young friend made his joyous return, “just how old are you?”
“Twenty-four,” Lord Felixstowe confided. “And if it’s the wine you are thinking about, don’t you worry. We’ve got it in our blood and we thrive on it. We doubled this little allowance each, the night after we won the regimental polo cup, and I made a hundred and seven against Yorkshire the following day. You should see the governor—a sallow, lean-looking man, without an ounce of colour. He’d drink you under the table before he’d begun to hiccough.... You’re not much of a lad for the fillies, what?”
“I find the variety here a little exotic,” Jacob confessed.
“You like the homemade article, eh? Not sure that you ain’t right. Gad, I’m glad I met you!”
Jacob, who might have been dining alone, reciprocated the sentiment as they solemnly toasted one another.
“Look here, old thing,” the young man insisted, “we’re pals. You’ve crossed the Rubicon, so to speak—tipped up the ready at the right moment and started me on the road to fortune. We’ll drop the ‘Mr.’ and the ‘Lord’-ing. Felix and Jacob, eh? Good! My love, Jacob. Come along with me into the Rooms and see me touch up those Johnnies to-night.”
Jacob shook his head.
“I prefer the Club,” he said, “and if you take my advice, you’ll put a thousand in your pocketbook and have a flutter with the three hundred.”