“Don’t mind me, Franky, I’m very sore yet.”
“I know, I know,” said Pratt, feelingly. “It’s hard—cursed hard! I’d say damned hard, only as a straightforward man I object to swearing. But where’s your bag, portmanteau, luggage?”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Richard, lighting his pipe, and smoking.
“What do you mean by all right? Where shall I send for them?”
“Send for them?”
“Send for them—yes. You’ve come to stay?”
“Yes, for an hour or two.”
“Dick,” cried Pratt, bringing his fist down upon the table with a bang, “if you are such a sneak as to go and stay anywhere else, I’ll cut you.”
“My dear Frank, don’t be foolish, I’ve taken lodgings.”
“Then give them up.”