“Are you running for a wager, Johnny Ludlow?”
I was running down to the river and had nearly run over Mr. Brandon, who was strolling along with his hands under his coat-tails. It was Saturday afternoon, and some of us were going out rowing. Mr. Brandon came down to see us embark.
As we all stood there, who should loom into sight but Sophie Chalk. She was leading a little mouse-coloured dog by a piece of red tape, one that Fred Temple had given her; and her shining hair was a sight to be seen in the sunlight; Tod walked by her with his arms folded. They halted to talk with some of us for a minute, and then went on, Madam Sophie giving old Brandon a saucy stare from her wide-open blue eyes. He had stood as still as a post, giving never a word to either of them.
That same night, when Tod and I were in our room alone, Mr. Brandon walked in. It was pretty late, but Tod was about to depart on his visit to High Street. As if the entrance of Mr. Brandon had been the signal for him to bolt, he put on his trencher and turned to the door. Quick as thought, Mr. Brandon interposed himself.
“If you go out of this room, Joseph Todhetley, it shall be over my body,” cried he, a whole hatful of authority in his squeaky voice. “I have come in to hold a final conversation with you; and I mean to do it.”
I thought an explosion was inevitable, with Tod’s temper. He controlled it, however; and after a moment’s hesitation put off his cap. Mr. Brandon sat down in the old big chair by the fire; Tod stood on the other side, his arm on the mantelpiece.
In a minute or two, they were going at it kindly. Old Brandon put Tod’s doings before him in the plainest language he could command; Tod retorted insolently in his passion.
“I have warned you enough against your ways and against that woman,” said Mr. Brandon. “I am here to do it once again, and to bid you for the last time give up her acquaintanceship. Yes, sir, bid you: I stand in the light of your unconscious father.”
“I wouldn’t do it for my father,” cried Tod, in his fury.
“She is leading you into a gulf of—of brimstone,” fired old Brandon. “Day by day you creep down a step lower into it, sir, like a calf that is being wiled to the shambles. Once fairly in, you’ll be smothered: the whole world won’t be able to pull you out again.”