“Well, I thought you might want to do a little shooting, sir.”
“Shooting! What with? One of Gadgem's guns? Hire it of him, eh, and steal the powder and shot!” he cried savagely.
“Yes—if you saw fit, sir. Gadgem, I am sure, would be most willing, and you can always get plenty of ammunition. Anyway, you might pass a few months with your kinsfolk on the Eastern Shore, whether you hunted or not; it did you so much good before. The winter here is always wearing, sloppy and wet. I've heard you say so repeatedly.” He had not taken his eyes from his face; he knew this was St. George's final stage, and he knew too that he would never again enter the home he loved; but this last he could not tell him outright. He would rather have cut his right hand off than tell him at all. Being even the humblest instrument in the exiling of a man like St. George Wilmot Temple was in itself a torture.
“And when do you want me to quit?” he said calmly. “I suppose I can evacuate like an officer and a gentleman and carry my side-arms with me—my father's cane, for instance, that I can neither sell nor pawn, and a case of razors which are past sharpening?” and his smile broadened as the humor of the thing stole over him.
“Well, sir, it ought to be done,” continued Pawson in his most serious tone, ignoring the sacrifice—(there was nothing funny in the situation to the attorney)—“well—I should say—right away. To-morrow, perhaps. This news of Gorsuch has come very sudden, you know. If I can show him that the new tenant has moved in already he might wait until his first month's rent was paid. You see that—”
“Oh, yes, Pawson, I see—see it all clear as day,” interrupted St. George—“have been seeing it for some months past, although neither you nor Gadgem seem to have been aware of that fact.” This came with so grave a tone that Pawson raised his eyes inquiringly. “And who is this man,” Temple went on, “who wants to step into my shoes? Be sure you tell him they are half-soled,” and he held up one boot. He might want to dance or hunt in them—and his toes would be out the first thing he knew.”
“He is Mr. Gorsuch's attorney, sir, a Mr. Fogbin,” Pawson answered, omitting any reference to the boots and still concerned over the gravity of the situation. “He did some work once for Colonel Rutter, and that's how Gorsuch got hold of him. That's why I suspect the colonel. This would make the interest sure, you see—rather a sly game, is it not, sir? One I did not expect.”
St. George pondered for a moment, and his eye fell on his servant.
“And what will I do with Todd?”
The darky's eyes had been rolling round in his head as the talk continued, Pawson, knowing how leaky he was, having told him nothing of the impending calamity for fear he would break it to his master in the wrong way.