His cheerfulness did not please Mr. Bradfield, who frowned still more as he asked shortly:
“Well, and what do you want?”
Now this Mr. Marrable did not quite like to confess. So he went on smiling, until he perceived by an ominous motion of his friend’s boot, that that gentleman’s endurance was about to give way.
“Well, John, it’s no use beating about the bush. The fact is, I’m down on my luck; there’s nothing doing up in town, and things don’t seem to get any better, and——”
“And you want some money, I suppose; your next quarter’s allowance advanced you, in fact?”
“Well, no; not exactly that, though I don’t say it wouldn’t be a convenience.”
John looked at him incredulously.
“What do you want, then?”
He wasn’t exactly afraid of Marrable, who seemed too flabby a sort of person to inspire one with much fear of what he might do; at the same time there was no denying that the weak vessel before him contained some perilous stuff in the way of undesirable knowledge. The man’s audacity in coming down again so soon gave him food for reflection.
“The fact is,” answered Marrable, softly, “that my wife and I were talking things over last night, and she said things were so bad that it would be better for us to part, and she said she was sure you wouldn’t mind giving an old friend like me a shelter for a time.”