There was a boyish exuberance about Jerrold Taberman, a debonair abandon, which he never could outgrow. It accorded well with his youthful face and careless mien, which made him so marked a contrast to his friend. Castleport, although impulsive and disposed to jollity as only a hale and hearty young man of twenty-two can be, was, on the whole, of a temperament the reverse of boisterous. He responded frankly to Jerry's outburst.
"Well, old man," said he, "there's nothing more needed than your word that you'll go, and stick it out to the end. I knew you would, Jerry. Confound it, give us your flipper!"
In his enthusiasm he caught Taberman's hand and wrung it heartily, being evidently moved more by some inner consciousness of the weighty nature of the scheme he was about to outline than by anything that had actually been said between them. Jerry laughed, and returned the grip with interest.
"And now," continued Castleport, "I'll let you have particulars galore. I'll tell you the beginning of it first: how the idea came to me. About three weeks ago I decided I'd go abroad,—I wrote you, you remember. Well, I went to Uncle Randolph, and asked him for a letter of credit. That's what comes of the pleasant arrangement by which all my property's in trust till I'm twenty-five! Beastly nuisance!"
"Of course it is," assented his companion. "It's queer your father made such a will. However," he added, as if with the feeling that he was perhaps touching upon delicate ground, "that's neither here nor there. Heave ahead."
"You know why I wanted to go," Jack went on, "and so"—
"Slow up a bit," interrupted the other, mischief shining in his eyes; "why should you want to go particularly?"
"Confound you!" retorted Castleport. "You know perfectly well! Do you think it's any fun to be here when—when"—
"When Miss Marchfield's on the other side," finished Jerry, with the air of enjoying a huge joke.