Antrim laughed. “The other kind, of course. Penny-ante in a parlour wouldn’t be half tough enough to suit him.”
“That’s bad.”
“Yes; especially bad in his case. He is a surly young cub, as vindictive as he is quarrelsome. Somebody will lay him out one of these fine nights, and that will be the end of it.”
Brant held his peace for two whole squares; then he spoke his mind freely as to a friend.
“It is none of my business, Antrim,” he began, “and I don’t know how you stand with the family, but it is a thousand pities to let that boy go to the devil without turning a hand to save him. I don’t half like the way you put it.”
Antrim laughed again. “You must remember that while you’re hearing it for the first time, it is an old story with me. Besides, I shouldn’t have a ghost of a chance with him. He doesn’t like me, and I don’t like him. If I should try to interfere I’d simply get myself into hot water with all concerned.”
“Just the same, something ought to be done,” Brant insisted.
“I agree with you, but who is to do it? By Jove, I have an idea! Suppose you try your hand. Mrs. Langford wouldn’t thank you a little bit, because she would never admit the necessity; so far from it, she’d probably write you down in her black book. But the judge knows, and he’d be your friend for life.”
Brant smiled rather grimly at the thought of his becoming a bearwarden for wayward youth, but he answered not a word; and presently their arrival at Mrs. Seeley’s put an end to the talk. Contrary to his custom, Brant did not read himself to sleep that night. In room of a book he took a problem to bed with him, lying awake far into the small hours to wrestle therewith. And the name of the problem was William Langford.