"I am sorry," said the German, with a shrug; "but it must be. He was so very irregular, you know; let ze business go all to pieces; piled up debts--I beg your pardon?"
In his honest indignation Burroughs had let fall a word, but pulled himself up in time: it was not his cue at present to quarrel with the German.
"Ze firm could not stand no more," Reinhardt went on, "so zey have dismissed him: I have ze cheque for his zree munce salary."
"It's an unfortunate affair," said Burroughs, as calmly as he could. "Still, even though he is no longer a servant of your firm, you have yourself been so thick with him that I'm sure you will do all you can, as a merely personal matter."
"So zick! Yes; and what is ze consequence? He is in my debt; he bleed me, sir: he owe me five hundred dollars and more. He promised to pay me wizin a week; ze week is past: he did not pay; and now he is a prisoner: I never see my money. You say, do somezink for him; what has he done for me? You ask me to spend my money, risk my life, for a young fool wiz no principle, no backbone, as you say--for a fellow zat sponge on me, and zen cheat me----"
The German was working up to a fine heat of spurious indignation; but he was suddenly checked by an abrupt movement on Burroughs' part. White with anger the young Englishman had clenched his fist and raised his arm to strike. But he curbed himself as Reinhardt shrank back.
"This is your house," he said, in a fierce low tone, "and for the moment I am your guest. You may think yourself lucky. If I hear of your repeating any of the lies you have just uttered, I swear I'll thrash you within an inch of your life--you mean hound!"
He could not help catching the man by the collar and shaking him. Then, flinging him off, he hurried out of the house.
CHAPTER XII
THE PRICE OF A MOUSTACHE