"Under the settee, yonder," nodded the Viscount, "wrapped up in the table-cloth."
"Table-cloth!" repeated Barnabas.
"By way of military cloak," explained the Viscount. "You see—Sling was rather—mellow, last night, and—at such times he always imagines he's campaigning again—insists upon sleeping on the floor."
Now, looking where the Viscount pointed, Barnabas espied the touzled head of Captain Slingsby of the Guards protruding from beneath the settee, and reposing upon a cushion. The Captain's features were serene, and his breathing soft and regular, albeit deepening, ever and anon, into a gentle snore.
"Poor old Sling!" said the Viscount, leaning forward the better to aim his missile, "in two hours' time he must go and face the Ogre, —poor old Sling! Now watch me hit him!" So saying Viscount Devenham launched his paper dart which, gliding gracefully through the air, buried its point in the Captain's whisker, whereupon that warrior, murmuring plaintively, turned over and fell once more gently a-snoring.
"Talking about the Ogre—" began the Viscount.
"You mean—Jasper Gaunt?" Barnabas inquired.
"Precisely, dear fellow, and, talking of him, did you happen to notice a—fellow, hanging about downstairs,—a bristly being with one eye, Bev?"
"Yes, Dick."
"Ha!" said the Viscount nodding, "and talking of him, brings me back to my Honored Roman—thus, Bev. Chancing to find myself in—ha—hum—a little difficulty, a—let us say—financial tightness, Bev. I immediately thought of my father, which,—under the circumstances was, I think, very natural—and filial, my dear fellow. I said to myself, here is a man, the author of my being, who, though confoundedly Roman, is still my father, and, as such, owes certain duties to his son, sacred duties, Bev, not to be lightly esteemed, blinked, or set aside,—eh, Bev?"