“Nonsense, dad,” cried Tom; “but, I say, what’s that in your pocket?”
“Oh, nothing, my son, nothing,” said the old man, in a confused way, as Tom pounced upon his pocket and dragged out something in a handkerchief. “Why bless my soul,” he cried, in a surprised tone of voice, as he raised his glasses to his eyes, “if it isn’t a patty.”
“Yes, gov’nor, and you’ve been sitting on it. Now, I say, old fellow, that is weak. Pah! why it smells of eau-de-Cologne from your handkerchief. You couldn’t eat that.”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t, my dear boy,” said the old gentleman, wrinkling up his forehead.
“Gov’nor, you’re incorrigible,” cried Tom. “Only this morning Joseph told me in confidence that you had borrowed five shillings of him, and I had to give it him back, leaving myself without a shilling. Hang me, if you do such things as this again, if I don’t tell the old lady.”
“No, no, my boy, pray don’t,” said the old gentleman, anxiously, “and I’ll never do so any more.”
“Till the very next time,” said Tom, sharply. “Gov’nor, you’re afraid of the servants, and you are always stealing something.”
“I—I—I am a little afraid of Robbins,” faltered the old man gently; “and that big footman Joseph rather looks at me; but, Tom, my boy, it ought not to be stealing for me to take my own things.”
“Well, I suppose not, gov’nor; but it really is absurd to see you send a chicken bone flying across a drawing-room when you take out your handkerchief and your coat-tails stiff with gravy.”
“It is, my son,” said the old man, hastily; “but about Charley Melton. I like him, Tom.”