“Talk sense! Who do you suppose is going to employ you? You don’t run well in harness, Bart. You’re too headstrong.”
“I’ll start a training stables of my own.”
“Where’s the money coming from? You’ll get none from me.”
“I don’t know, but you needn’t think you can force me to give Loveday up by cutting off supplies. I’m young, and strong, and I know enough about farming to get job any day of the week.”
“And what does Miss Loveday say to all this?” inquired Penhallow, the corners of his mouth beginning to lift.
He knew from Bart’s silence that he had set his finger on the weak link in his armour, and was satisfied. He tightened his grip on Bart’s knee. “Come on, my lad! Let’s have it from the shoulder! What are you going to do? Walk out on me? I can’t stop you!”
“Hell, why can’t you hand over Trellick, and let me please myself?” Bart exploded. “I’m not your heir. It doesn’t matter a tinker’s curse what I do! All that tosh about birth and breeding! It’s out-of-date — dead as mutton!”
“Well, I’m out-of-date,” said Penhallow. “Daresay I’ll be dead as mutton too before very long. Wait till I’m gone before you take that girl to church.”
Bart said awkwardly: “You’re all right, Guv’nor. See us all out.”
“Oh, no, I shan’t! I’m done, my boy. Drinking myself into my grave. I’ll be bound that old woman, Lifton, has told you so! Damned fool!”