“Oh, I’m very fond of him, old lady,” said Barclay, chuckling. “I love him like a son, and—there he is again. I must go now.”
It was only into the next room, but there were double doors, and as Barclay entered the Major’s countenance did not look at all handsome, but very black and forbidding.
“Come, Barclay,” he cried, with a smile; “I thought you were going to put me off. Here, I’ve been hard hit again. I’m as poor as Job, and I must have a hundred.”
For answer Barclay shrugged his shoulders, took out a fat pocket-book, and began to draw out the tuck.
“Put that away,” cried the Major impatiently; and he gave the book a flick with his riding-whip, but not without cutting right across Barclay’s fingers, and making a red mark.
The money-lender did not even wince, but he mentally made a mark against his client’s name, intimating that the cut would have to be paid for some day or another.
“I know all about that. I’ve had five hundred of you during the past two months. Never mind that; the luck must turn sometime. Cards have been dead against me lately. That Mellersh has the most extraordinary luck; but I shall have him yet, and we’ll soon be square again. Come, I want a hundred.”
“When?”
“Now, man, now.”
“Can’t be done, Major, really.”