“I heard it from good authority,” said her ladyship as Lord Barmouth beat a retreat.
“Then good authority is a confounded liar,” cried Tom, as her ladyship sailed out of the room, and after he had cooled down a little and looked round, he found his lordship had gone.
Tom went into the cloak-room, where he came upon his father sitting on a box, busily spreading a biscuit with some mysterious condiment which he dug out of a pot with a paper-knife.
“Poor old Charley,” said Tom, not heeding his father’s occupation, “he’s the soul of honour—a regular trump. Look here, gov’nor,” he cried, turning sharply on the old gentleman and making him jump.
“Don’t you bully me too, my dear boy,” said the old man, trembling. “I can’t bear it!”
“I’m not going to bully you, gov’nor,” cried Tom, laying his hands on the old man’s shoulders affectionately; “but are you going to stand up for your rights or are you not? Look here—that tongue!”
“Yes, my boy, I did take it—I own it. I thought I might be hungry to-morrow, I have such a dreadful appetite, my boy.”
“Then why not ring and order that pompous old fizzle Robbins to bring you up something to eat?”
“I daren’t, my dear boy, I daren’t. Her ladyship has given such strict orders to the servants, and I feel so humiliated when they refuse me.”
“Of course you do, gov’nor. Then why don’t you go down to the club?”