Morgan pulled a Greek lexicon toward him—he used a Greek-German—to look out a word, instead of asking it of Pemberton. “You can’t go on like this, you know.”
“Like what, my boy?”
“You know they don’t pay you up,” said Morgan, blushing and turning his leaves.
“Don’t pay me?” Pemberton stared again and feigned amazement. “What on earth put that into your head?”
“It has been there a long time,” the boy replied rummaging his book.
Pemberton was silent, then he went on: “I say, what are you hunting for? They pay me beautifully.”
“I’m hunting for the Greek for awful whopper,” Morgan dropped.
“Find that rather for gross impertinence and disabuse your mind. What do I want of money?”
“Oh that’s another question!”
Pemberton wavered—he was drawn in different ways. The severely correct thing would have been to tell the boy that such a matter was none of his business and bid him go on with his lines. But they were really too intimate for that; it was not the way he was in the habit of treating him; there had been no reason it should be. On the other hand Morgan had quite lighted on the truth—he really shouldn’t be able to keep it up much longer; therefore why not let him know one’s real motive for forsaking him? At the same time it wasn’t decent to abuse to one’s pupil the family of one’s pupil; it was better to misrepresent than to do that. So in reply to his comrade’s last exclamation he just declared, to dismiss the subject, that he had received several payments.