"It struck me that you might have some natural affection."
"Me!—fur a hemmed Radical! You'd better have saved your money, young feller—I'm shut of you."
"If you're still harping on my politics," said Albert fretfully, "you needn't worry. Either side can go to the devil, for all I care. I suppose it's natural to brood over things down here, but in London one forgets a rumpus fifteen years old."
"I'll never disremember the way you shamed me in '65."
"I don't ask you to disremember anything. Only let me have supper and a bed, and to-morrow——"
A fit of coughing interrupted him. He strained and shook from head to foot. He had no handkerchief, and spat blood on the floor.
"Fäather!" cried Pete, "you can't turn him out lik this."
"He's shamming," said Reuben.
"Quite so," said Albert, who seemed to have learned sarcasm in exile—"hæmorrhage is so deuced easy to sham."
"He's come back to git money out of me," said Reuben, "but he shan't have a penny—I've none to spare."