"Thanks—yes. I'm pretty well bunkered, Harwood. Unconsciously, by your kindness in collecting all those subs., you did us a bad turn; they all went."
"And by now, doubtless, have been spent on a fuddle in the Thieves' Kitchen," Harwood agreed. "More of my mistaken zeal coming back on me! The money's gone—Kismet! No subscriptions, no paper!"
The captain turned sharply round to stare at the Prefect. "What do you mean, Harwood? 'No paper!' Are you thinking, then, that there'll be no Rooke's House Rag after this?"
Luke gave his pleasant laugh. "Well, it's rather a natural inference, Forge. Paper costs money. Printing-ink ditto. If the money's in the Thieves' Kitchen it can't be spent here. Ergo, you are justified in ceasing publication."
He felt annoyed during this speech to find himself getting somewhat red in the face beneath the questioning scrutiny of Dick's clear eyes. There was something about what he had said which evidently did not appeal to the Captain.
"I say, Harwood, please don't suggest a get-out that I'm sure you wouldn't adopt yourself! Take the Foxes' money and give them nothing in return! Impossible!"
"But you didn't take the brass—the burglars pinched it. Don't be too straitlaced, Forge, for your own sake. Men of business 'wind up' when their funds are stolen, and nobody blames them. It's simply Fate!"
"Oh, thanks for the tip, Harwood! Perhaps I am over-squeamish, but I took a quarter's subscription from Foxenby in exchange for a fortnightly mag., and I mean, by hook or by crook, to deliver the goods."
Harwood jumped up and shot out his hand impulsively. There seemed to be a troublesome lump in his throat as he spoke.
"Bravo, old fellow! You're top-hole. Keep the flag flying by all means, and if there's anything I can do to help; any—er—little loan——"