"Oh, a tenner or so, I suppose," he suggested.
"A tenner!" exclaimed his father.
"Say a fiver, then," said Frank hurriedly.
"A fiver for a week or two in London? My dear boy, you don't know how to do the thing at all. Your return ticket will cost you over three pounds; supposing one averages your dinners at ten shillings a night for a fortnight—that's seven pounds more; suppers, even if you supped alone" (here he winked upon his startled offspring), "will run you at least as much. Put railway and grub at thirty pounds—just to be safe. Then you'll be going to theaters and music-halls, and taking cabs, and having a week-end at Brighton—and the Lord knows what else. My hat, it will be a spree!"
With sparkling eyes and a beaming smile he leant forward in his chair and tapped his son upon the knee.
"I'll come with you, Frank."
"You!" gasped the poor youth.
"Yes," said Mr. Walkingshaw, apparently more to himself than to Frank, "that's the way to set about it!"
He beamed upon his son confidentially.
"I've got a splendid idea, and you're just the very chap to help me. I won't spoil sport, my boy, but I'll travel up with you—and, by Jove, we might stop at the same hotel, if that wouldn't embarrass you. Would it?"