“Not he,” snarled Distin, pausing in his occupation of removing thorns from his jacket. “Killed all his patients, and was obliged to run away into the country.”
“That’s it!” said Vane Lee, with a laugh. “What a clever chap you are, Distie; at least you would be if your tongue wasn’t quite so sharp. There, shake hands, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
He stretched out rather a dirty hand, at which the young Creole gave a contemptuous glance, looked at his own white fingers, and thrust them into his pockets.
“Ah, well, they are dirty,” said Vane, laughing. “No, they’re not. It’s only good old English soil. Come on. Uncle will be glad to see you, and then we’ll all walk up to the Rectory together.”
Crick!
Distin struck a match, and, with a very haughty look on his thin face, began to puff at a cigarette which he had taken from a little silver case, Vane watching him scornfully the while, but only to explode with mirth the next moment, for the young West Indian, though he came from where his father’s plantations produced acres of the pungent weed, was not to the manner born, and at the third draw inhaled so much acrid smoke that he choked, and stood coughing violently till Vane gave him a hearty slap on his back.
Down went the cigarette, as Distin made a bound forward.
“You boor!” he coughed out; and, giving the lad a malevolent look, he turned haughtily to the others.
“Are you fellows coming home to breakfast?”
He did not pause for an answer, but walked off sharply in the direction of the Rectory, a quarter of a mile from the little sleepy town.