But no blow was struck. Tom uttered a low sound, like the muttering growl of an angry dog, and smoked quickly, giving the butt of his cue a thump down upon the floor from time to time as he walked.
“I shan’t mind your marrying, Tom; and there’s plenty of room for you to bring a wife to. I shan’t marry, so your boy will get the title—and the coin.”
“Coin?” cried Tom savagely; “there’ll be none left. Do you think I don’t know how you are spending it?”
“Never mind how I spend it, my lad. I only spend what is my own; and if I had spent all, I shouldn’t come begging to you.”
“Lucky for you,” cried Tom Candlish tauntingly. “Look here, Luke, how many years does it take a man to drink himself to death?”
“Don’t know,” said the squire, wincing.
“Well, you’re hard at work, and I shall watch the experiment with some curiosity. I’ve a good chance.”
“Healthier man than you, Tom; and it’ll take me longer to kill myself than it will take you. I shall be a hale man long after you’ve broken your neck hunting.”
“Look here!” cried Tom savagely, “once more: do you want to quarrel?”
“Not I,” said the squire; “and I don’t want to fight. Cain might kill Abel over again with an unlucky blow.”