Torpenhow watched Dick's face and whistled.
Dick walked up and down, thinking. He saw the whole of his little stock in trade, the first weapon of his equipment, annexed at the outset of his campaign by an elderly gentleman whose name Dick had not caught aright, who said that he represented a syndicate, which was a thing for which Dick had not the least reverence. The injustice of the proceedings did not much move him; he had seen the strong hand prevail too often in other places to be squeamish over the moral aspects of right and wrong.
But he ardently desired the blood of the gentleman in the frockcoat, and when he spoke again, it was with a strained sweetness that Torpenhow knew well for the beginning of strife.
“Forgive me, sir, but you have no—no younger man who can arrange this business with me?”
“I speak for the syndicate. I see no reason for a third party to——”
“You will in a minute. Be good enough to give back my sketches.”
The man stared blankly at Dick, and then at Torpenhow, who was leaning against the wall. He was not used to ex-employees who ordered him to be good enough to do things.
“Yes, it is rather a cold-blooded steal,” said Torpenhow, critically; “but I'm afraid, I am very much afraid, you've struck the wrong man. Be careful, Dick; remember, this isn't the Soudan.”
“Considering what services the syndicate have done you in putting your name before the world——”
This was not a fortunate remark; it reminded Dick of certain vagrant years lived out in loneliness and strife and unsatisfied desires. The memory did not contrast well with the prosperous gentleman who proposed to enjoy the fruit of those years.