“You mustn’t leave me at all, father. I’m sometimes sick of civilised life. I’m going with you wherever you go.”
That same evening after dinner, while Etheldene was away somewhere with her new friend—showing him, I think, how to throw the boomerang—Winslow and Archie sat out in the verandah looking at the stars while they sipped their coffee.
Winslow had been silent for a time, suddenly he spoke.
“I’m going to ask you a strange question, youngster,” he said.
“Well, sir?” said Archie.
“Suppose I were in a difficulty, from what you have seen of me would you help me out if you could?”
“You needn’t ask, sir,” said Archie. “My uncle’s friend.”
“Well, a fifty-pound note would do it.”
Archie had his uncle’s draft still with him. He never said a word till he had handed it to Winslow, and till this eccentric individual had crumpled it up, and thrust it unceremoniously, and with only a grunt of thanks, into one of his capacious pockets.
“But,” said Archie, “I would rather you would not look upon it as a loan. In fact, I am doubting the evidence of my senses. You—with all the show of wealth I see around me—to be in temporary need of a poor, paltry fifty pounds! Verily, sir, this is the land of contrarieties.”