“But I thought Mr Mervyn—”
“Mr Mervyn’s as good and kind a gentleman as ever lived, and he’s wanted to learn me all sort of things; but I can’t take to them—I can’t, indeed, sir. Then there’s Polly: she’s at a fine school, and, poor lass, she’s miserable, and writes to me how glad she’ll be to get away. It’s all wrong, sir. What’s the good of a horse to a man as can’t ride, or a yacht to a man as can’t sail it? I’ve got Penreife, and I go in and out of it feeling quite ashamed-like, just as if I was a fish out of water. I tell you, Master Dick, upon my sivvy, what with feeling uncomfortable about ousting you, and being sneered at on the sly, and bothered with the company and invitations, and hints to dress different, and learn this, and learn that, I haven’t had a happy day since you left. I don’t like it, and I don’t want it. Damn the estate!—there!”
“Why, my dear fellow, you’ll soon get used to it if you make up your mind. Why, you’re in your old keeper’s clothes.”
“Of course I am. Why shouldn’t I be? There’s no one up here I know, so I thought I’d be comfortable-like, and I thought—I thought I should be better in them to come and see you. And now, sir, how’s it with you?”
“Oh, pretty well, Humphrey. I’ve got the command of a schooner, and I’m going on a voyage to India.”
“No, no—don’t go, Master Dick—don’t. Come down into Cornwall again.”
Richard shook his head.
“Nonsense, sir; why, lookye here. Here am I, Humphrey Lloyd—”
“Trevor,” said Richard.
“Hang the name!” said Humphrey, “it’s always bothering me. I more often sign Lloyd than Trevor, which is about the awkwardest name there ever was to write. Ah, Master Dick, it was a bad day’s work for me when there was that change.”