His father didn't hear him.
'And now, Frank, I'm not an ordinary father, you know; and, before entering the House, I don't see in the least why you shouldn't have your fling for a year or two. I maintain that all young fellows should have their fling. A hundred years or so agone I had my fling. Look at me now. Am I any the worse? Well, I've just put a bit in the bank for you, lad, so go and do your best.'
Frank was laughing merrily.
He put his hand in what he called his rabbit-pocket and handed out a book: The Gamekeeper at Home. 'That is my lay, dad,' he said. 'I only want to potter around and fish and shoot, or hunt in season. Don't like London. Hate Paris. Not at home in so-called society. I'll just have my fling in my own humdrum fashion, daddy, thank you all the same. I'll have my fling, depend upon it.'
The young man was smiling to himself at some recollection.
'What is it, Frank?'
'Only this, dad. The black keeper—Tim, you know—weighs two hundred and twenty pounds. The other day he was stronger than I. I threw him last eve—Cumberland. This morning I lifted him with my left and landed him on the west side of the picket-fence. How's that for a fling, daddy?'
'Go on, you young rogue. Listen, I hear Aggie calling you!'
'Oh, but you listen to me, father. I really don't see enough life down here.'
'Well, there's London, my lad. London for life!'