“I have been trying to tell you about something that has happened to me lately.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Williamson, in his lazy fashion putting up his legs upon a vacant chair, and nodding a smiling signal of approval.
Paul hesitated, and said it was rather a long story, and he fidgetted with a tassel that hung from the sword he had laid upon the window seat.
“All right, mon gallant homme, proceed!” said the literary barrister.
Paul gave a long pull and a strong pull at his cigar, and said he would proceed. “I must tell you,—I can’t rest unless I do,—so here goes.”
“Open confession is good for the soul,” said Mr. Williamson; “the auricular business is not to my fancy. But there, go on, Lieutenant, I am getting interested.”
“About a month ago Captain Macshawser gave me a tip about a certain steeple-chase, and his information turned out wrong, and——”
“You laid a wager and lost, yes,” said Mr. Williamson, looking out to the sea, and smoking with perfect content.
“And then, in order to get back what I lost, I ventured to take the odds about Fleetwing, and was unsuccessful again,” said Paul, with boyish frankness.
“Very good; I am glad of it,” said Mr. Williamson. “I hope you have been so well punished that you will, like the burnt child, dread the fire in the future.”