He called first at the Albany.
Tozer, the son of a big, defunct Manchester cotton merchant, was a man of some twenty-three years, red-haired, with a taste for the good things of life, a taste for boxing, a taste for music, and a hard common sense that never deserted him even in his gayest and most frivolous moods. His chambers were newly furnished, the walls of the sitting-room adorned with old prints, mostly proofs before letter; boxing gloves and single-sticks hinted of themselves, and a violoncello stood in the corner.
He was at breakfast when Bobby arrived. Tozer rang for another cup and plate.
"Tozer," said Bobby, "I'm bust."
"Aren't surprised to hear it," replied Tozer. "Try these kippers."
"One single sovereign in the world, my boy, and I'm hunting for new rooms."
"What's the matter with your old rooms? Have they kicked you out?"
Bobby explained.
"Good Lord!" said Tozer. "You've cut the ground from under your feet, staying at a place like that."
"It's not all my fault, it's my relative. I always boasted to him that I paid my rent in advance; he took it as a sign of wisdom."