"Egad, nothing so gentlemanly. A cudgel, by the look of the bruise. A Mohock's club, I suppose. I found you lying in the kennel as I was coming home."
"Oh, you're at home are you?" Harry laughed stupidly. "And where is home?"
"These are my lodgings in Martin's Lane, Harry, and you are welcome. But what have you to do in town? Young husbands should not be night walkers."
Harry stared at him for a moment. "I thought you knew everything," he said. Then, beginning to scramble up, he became aware that his clothes were all undone—coat, shirt, even breeches. "Odso, why were you stripping me?"
"I found you so. They shave you close, the Mohocks."
"They are a queer crew, your Mohocks." Harry looked at his father. "What should I carry inside my shirt?" Then he thrust his hands into his pockets. "Well, I had not much, but all's gone."
"Damned rogues," said his father with honest indignation. "How much have you lost, Harry?"
"Five guineas or so."
"I can make that good at least. But what is it to you? You are a warm fellow now. What, you've made no hole in Madame Alison's money bags yet."
"You're offensive, do you know?" Harry said. "I have been itching to tell you so."