Poynter drew a breath fall of satisfaction, and smiled at his polished hat.
“Well, I think the operation ought to be performed, so as to bring him to his senses again. Poor old boy! He does seem queer. I asked him—”
“What, you spoke to that poor old man about your cursed debt!” cried Hendon furiously.
“Of course I did. Cursed debt, indeed! Why, I’ve behaved as well as a man could behave. Lookye here, do you want me to sell you up?”
Hendon uttered an ejaculation, and, writhing under his impotence, he began pacing the old dining-room, while with a show of proprietorship James Poynter set down his hat, put his handkerchief therein, took out his case, and selected a cigar.
“Have a weed?” he said, nipping the end of the one he was about to smoke.
“Damn you, and your cigars too!” cried the young man furiously.
“Thank ye, cub!” said Poynter, lighting up. “There, you won’t make me waxy. I’m a true friend in disguise. Ah, this is one of a noo lot I bought. Have one, old man.”
Hendon made a fierce gesticulation, and scowled in the grinning face.
“How long are you going to stop here?” he said.