"How long are you going to be? Come here and let me have a look at you."
Though only half-dried, the soap-suds still remaining in the corners of his eyes, Bertie obeyed the dark man's order and stood in front of him. That gentleman still held the too-familiar revolver in his hand. It had long been the secret longing of Bertie's soul to possess one of his own; henceforward he would hate the sight of the too-agile arm for evermore.
"You don't look like a doctor's son. Own up you lied."
"I--I didn't, sir."
"A pretty sort of doctor's son you look! Has your father any money?"
A wild idea entered Bertie's brain. He remembered how Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins had risen to the bait.
"Ye--yes, sir; he's very rich. He'd give a thousand pounds to get me back again."
But this time the bait failed, and signally.
"Oh, he would, would he? Then he must be about the most remarkable fool of a father I ever came across. Don't you try to stuff your lies down my throat, my joker, because I'm a liar myself, and know the smell. You listen to me. You'd better; because if you don't listen to every word, and stick it inside your head, it'll be a case of shooting, though I'm hung for you five minutes after. Do you hear?"
"Ye--yes, sir."