“I did not mean ever to ask you for it, but it would be useful now.”
“Well, I’m blest!” cried Jerry. “Talk about cheek! When did I borrow a sovereign of you, my whippersnapper?”
“Two years ago, when you wanted to bet on some horse for the Derby.”
Jerry’s jaw dropped.
“Who—who—who—who—says?” he stuttered. “How did—? When did—? Here—who are you?—How did—? I say: who are you?”
“Dick Smithson, 205th Band,” replied the young man, unable to keep from enjoying the state of puzzledom in which his ex-servant was plunged.
“But I don’t know no Dick Smithson; and how you—you—you! Oh, lor’!”
Jerry had suddenly turned ghastly, reeled, and caught at the lamp-post close at hand.
“Hush! Quiet!” cried Dick, in an excited whisper. “Don’t make a scene!”
“S’Richard!” gasped Jerry.