Tom Girtley rubbed one of his ears, and a dry comical look came into his countenance.
“Well, Tony, old fellow—” he began.
“Oh, come,” I cried, “that form of address is not legal, so it is between friends.”
“Just as you like,” he said, laughing. “Well, Tony, old fellow, under the circumstances, I should put the screw on, especially if I knew him to be a scoundrel. First and foremost, I should have his consent to our marriage; secondly, I should inspect his money affairs, and if they were in a satisfactory state, I should make the sneak disgorge.”
“But you would not ruin him, and blast his character, for his child’s sake?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then, suppose the young lady did not care for you?”
“Then I should fire at the old man hotter and stronger, so us to ease my wounded feelings.”
“No, you wouldn’t, Tom,” I said; “so don’t humbug.”
“You’re a rum fellow, Tony,” he retorted, “and ’pon my word it’s precious disappointing. Here’s old Peter Rowle been hoarding this up for his ‘dear boy,’ as the smoky old cockolorum calls you, and old Jabez in a high state of delight too. Then Miss Carr has spent no end over it, and thought she had secured you your rights, and now you kick us all over.”