“Shut your mouth,” said John, “your time’s come to listen.”
He strode into the dining-room, fell into the easy-chair, and taking off one of his burst walking-shoes, nursed for a while his foot like one in agony. “I’m lame for life,” he said. “What is there for dinner?”
“Nothing, Johnny,” said Morris.
“Nothing? What do you mean by that?” inquired the Great Vance. “Don’t set up your chat to me!”
“I mean simply nothing,” said his brother. “I have nothing to eat, and nothing to buy it with. I’ve only had a cup of tea and a sandwich all this day myself.”
“Only a sandwich?” sneered Vance. “I suppose you’re going to complain next. But you had better take care: I’ve had all I mean to take; and I can tell you what it is, I mean to dine and to dine well. Take your signets and sell them.”
“I can’t to-day,” objected Morris; “it’s Sunday.”
“I tell you I’m going to dine!” cried the younger brother.
“But if it’s not possible, Johnny?” pleaded the other.
“You nincompoop!” cried Vance. “Ain’t we house-holders? Don’t they know us at that hotel where Uncle Parker used to come. Be off with you; and if you ain’t back in half an hour, and if the dinner ain’t good, first I’ll lick you till you don’t want to breathe, and then I’ll go straight to the police and blow the gaff. Do you understand that, Morris Finsbury? Because if you do, you had better jump.”