“Howard,” cried Holloway, “I sent for you to tell you a great secret.”
“I’m sorry for it,” said Charles; “for I hate secrets.”
“But you can keep a secret, man, can’t you?”
“If it were necessary, I hope I could; but I’d rather not hear—”
“Pooh, nonsense,” interrupted Holloway, “you must hear it; I’ll trust to your honour; and, besides, I have not a moment to stand shilly shally: I’ve got a promise from my father to let me go down, this Easter, with Lord Rawson, to Marryborough, in his dog-cart, randem-tandem, you know.”
“I did not know it, indeed,” said Charles; “but what then?”
“Why, then, you see, I must be upon my good behaviour; and you would not do such an ill-natured trick as to betray me?”
“Betray you! I don’t know what you mean,” said Howard, astonished.
Holloway now briefly told him his stage-coach adventure, and concluded by saying, he was afraid that the mulatto woman should recollect either his face or voice, and should blow him.
“And what,” said Howard, shocked at the selfishness which Holloway showed—“and what do you want me to do? why do you tell me all this?”