"What, Dick! what ill wind—it must be an ill wind—sends you here in September? You ought to be among the partridges, my boy."
"It is an ill wind," said Dick.
"No need to tell me that: but judging by your complexion nothing of a tremendous character. Money? or love?"
"Well, sir, it is not really my own business at all. As for my complexion, that don't matter. I don't show outside."
"Some men don't," said the old lawyer laconically; "but if the trouble is not your own that is easy to understand."
At this Dick gave a short laugh. He wanted it to be believed that the trouble was not his own, and yet he did not quite care to be supposed indifferent to it.
"It's an old story," he said. "It is something that happened to—Tom Wyld, an old crony of mine out on the other side."
"I suppose you mean in America. No more slang than you can help, please. It's admirably expressive sometimes, I allow: but not being used to it in my youth I have some difficulty in following. Well, about Tom Wyld—one of the old judge's sons or grandsons, I suppose."
Dick's complexion heightened a little.
"Oh, not any one you ever heard of—a fellow I picked up—out there."