"Pshaw. I had him at Pontoise and was doing well with him. Then in comes a swashbuckling Scots Jacobite which is my private enemy, and a dozen bullies at his tail. Well, I had no mind to have him stick me or turn me over to the French as a spy of Marlborough's, so I went off. The fool Waverton let himself be taken. I make no doubt the Scot filled him to the brim with slanders of me. But is that my fault?"
"So you're done with the Pretender?"
Colonel Boyce gave his son a queer look. "Why, there's not much to be done with him in Martin's Lane, boy."
"Then what are you doing?"
"Egad, Harry, I should think you want to lay an information against
me. Waiting for better times is all my business now. My bolt's shot.
And pray, sirrah, what may be your business now you've cut loose from
Mrs. Alison?"
Harry laughed. "Living on my means."
"Why, does she settle something on you?"
Harry looked at his father without affection. "Do you know, sir, I am not always proud of your name."
"Egad, but you must have money somehow."
"The family motto, I suppose. Well, sir, I write for the Press."