“Then it’s war to the knife, is it?”
“I mean to tell the truth about you.”
“Then do your worst. You shall black my boots again.”
“If I do, I shall have the penny first.”
“You cringing flunkey!”
“I haven’t cringed to you, Mr. Marway!”
Marway tried to kick him, failed, and strode into the dark between him and the lamps of the town.
Chapter LXII.
The Cage of the Puma.
Marway was a fine, handsome fellow, whose manners, where he saw reason, soon won him favour, and two of the young men in the office were his ready slaves. Every moment of the next day Clare was watched. Marway had laid his plans, and would forestall frustration. Clare could hardly do anything before the dinner-hour, but Marway would make assurance double sure.
At anchor in the roads lay a certain frigate, whose duty it was to sail round the islands, like a duck about her floating brood. Among the young officers on board were two with whom Marway was intimate. He had met them the night before, and they had together laid a plot for nullifying Clare’s interference with Marway’s scheme—which his friends also had reason to wish successful, for Marway owed them both money. Clare had come in the way of all three.