Sam made plaintive noises. Fifty years, he considered, was an overstatement.
“I concealed nothing of this from Lord Tilbury, but nevertheless he insists on engaging you.”
“Odd,” said Sam. He could not help feeling a little flattered at this intense desire for his services on the part of a man who had met him only once. Lord Tilbury might be a bore, but there was no getting away from the fact that he had that gift without which no one can amass a large fortune—that strange, almost uncanny gift for spotting the good man when he saw him.
“Not at all odd,” said Mr. Pynsent. “He and I are in the middle of a business deal. He is trying to persuade me to do something which at present I have not made up my mind to do. He thinks that by taking you off my hands he will put me under an obligation. So he will.”
“Uncle,” said Sam impressively, “I will make good.”
“You’d better,” returned Mr. Pynsent, unmelted. “It is your last chance. There is no earthly reason why I should go on supporting you for the rest of your life, and I do not intend to do it. If you make a mess of things at Tilbury House, don’t think that you can come running back to me. There will be no fatted calf. Remember that.”
“I will, uncle, I will. But don’t worry. Something tells me I am going to be good. I shall like going to England.”
“I am glad to hear that. Well, that is all. Good afternoon.”
“You know, it’s rather strange that you should be sending me over there,” said Sam meditatively.
“I don’t think so. I am glad to have the chance.”