“If your head were beating as mine is, Johnny, you wouldn’t call it an excuse. You’ll be a muff to the end of your days.”
“Well, I thought it might be that.”
“Did you! If I made up my mind not to play, I should tell it out straightforwardly: not put forth any shuffling ‘excuse.’”
“Any way, a headache’s better than losing your money.”
“Don’t bother.”
I got to the Tavistock at five minutes past eleven, and found Mr. Brandon reading the Times. He looked at me over the top of it, as if he were surprised.
“So you have come, Mr. Johnny!”
“Yes, sir. I turned up the wrong street and missed my way: it has made me a little late.”
“Oh, that’s the reason, is it,” said Mr. Brandon. “I thought perhaps a young man, who has been initiated into the ways of London life, might no longer consider it necessary to attend to the requests of his elders.”