“There, S’Richard,” said the man, flushing. “Now, ain’t that as good as sayin’ I’d steal a watch? I’d take my oath I never—”
“That will do, Jerry,” said Sir Richard, sternly. “You needn’t wait.—Why can’t you leave the fellow alone, Mark?”
“Why can’t you act like a gentleman, and not be always making friends with the servants?” retorted the young fellow addressed. “So that’s it, is it? The confounded sneak comes tattling to you, does he?”
“No!” cried Sir Richard, rather gruffly; “but he did complain of your forgetting yourself and throwing things at him.”
“Oh, did he?” cried Mark Frayne, catching up the nearest thing, which was the model his cousin had been making, and hurling it at the offender, but without effect, for Jeremiah Brigley already had the door open and darted out; the panel receiving the model instead of his head.
Sir Richard Frayne sprang to his feet to save his model, but too late; it fell, shivered, to the carpet, and the new-comer burst into a roar of laughter.
“I don’t see anything to grin at,” said his cousin, indignantly.
“Not you!” said the other, letting himself down on to the keyboard of the piano with a loud musical crash, and laughing heartily all the time. “Why don’t you get on with your work? Anyone would think you were in training for a cat-gut scraper at a low theatre instead of for an officer and a gentleman.”
“Mark, old chap,” said Sir Richard, good-humouredly, as, with rather a rueful look, he picked up his broken model, “every man to his taste. I like music; you like dogs.”
“Yes; and they make a precious sight better music than ever you do. Soldier! Pooh! You haven’t the heart of a cockroach in you. Thank goodness, you’ll soon have to do your exam. That’ll open your eyes, and I shall be glad of it. If I were you, I’d try for an engagement in a band somewhere, for you’ll never get a commission.”