“Tom,” he cried, “I believe you’re a screw!”
“Never said I wasn’t,” rejoined Tom, as he finished his glass. “I’m a bachelor, and a person—you’re married, and an object. I won’t have the tailor’s family at my coat-tails.”
Do you mean to say, Tom, you don’t like the young fellow? The Countess says he’s half engaged to an heiress; and he has a chance of appointments—of course, nothing may come of them. But do you mean to say, you don’t like him for what he has done?”
Tom made his jaw disagreeably prominent. “’Fraid I’m guilty of that crime.”
“And you that swear at people pretending to be above their station!” exclaimed Andrew. “I shall get in a passion. I can’t stand this. Here, waiter! what have I to pay?”
“Go,” cried the time-honoured guest of the Aurora to Jonathan advancing.
Andrew pressed the very roots of his hair back from his red forehead, and sat upright and resolute, glancing at Tom. And now ensued a curious scene of family blood. For no sooner did elderly Tom observe this bantam-like demeanour of his brother, than he ruffled his feathers likewise, and looked down on him, agitating his wig over a prodigious frown. Whereof came the following sharp colloquy; Andrew beginning:
“I’ll pay off the debts out of my own pocket.”
“You can make a greater fool of yourself, then?”
“He shan’t be a tailor!”