The captain was probably able to form a pretty clear estimate how much of this glib story was fact and how much fiction.
Whatever the proportion may have been, he had to acknowledge that this friend of his held him in an uncomfortable grip, and had better—for the present at least—be conciliated.
So the two went out arm in arm for a stroll—the first of many they took during their fortnight’s sojourn in town.
The news from Maxfield became unpleasingly damping. Here, for instance, is a letter the doting father received from his son and heir a week after Ratman’s arrival.
“Dear Pater,—Isn’t it fizzing that old Roger is pretty nearly out of the wood? The fever’s come down like anything, and he’s getting quite chirpy. I can’t fancy how a chap can hang on at all with nothing to eat but milk. It wouldn’t fill up my chinks. If ever I get a fever, keep me going on beefsteak and mashed potatoes. It’s been a great lark having no lessons. Armstrong’s forgotten my existence, I think. He and Rosalind have regular rows about sitting up with him—I mean Roger, and Rosalind generally has to cave in. It does her good to cave in now and then. Armstrong’s the only one can make her. I can’t; nor can Brandram. Brandram’s a stunner. I drive him in and out of Yeld every day, and he’s up to no end of larks. And now Roger’s pulling round, he’s as festive as an owl. Jill’s in jolly dumps because she’s out of it all. Rosalind sits on her and tells her she’s too much of a kid to be any good; and she doesn’t get much change out of Armstrong. So she has to knock about with me all day, which is awful slow. I say, go and see Christy’s Minstrels when you’re in town, and get them to let Jockabilly do the break-down. It will make you split. If that French chap is hanging about, tip him a bob for me and be civil to him, because he was decent enough to me. Auntie Eva said something about your bringing a gentleman home with you. I hope he’s a jolly sort of chap. Rosalind’s temper is all anyhow. When I told her a visitor was coming, she shut me up with a regular flea in my ear. Never mind, she’s been a brick to old Roger and Auntie Eva, so we must make allowances. Old Hodder calls up nearly every day to ask after us all. He’s grown quite young since he was left alone in his cottage, and Armstrong came down like a sack of coals on that beast Pottinger. My dear father, if you would like to know what I most hope you’ll bring home for me, it’s a football—Rugby—for the coming winter. Armstrong’s promised to coach me in the drop kick. Can you do it? I shall be glad to see you home, as I’m jolly low in pocket-money, besides the affection one feels for those who are absent. Jill joins in love.
“Your affectionate ‘Tom.’
“P.S.—Auntie Eva is not nearly so down on her luck now that Roger’s taken his turn. If he’s well enough she’s going to have a little kick-up on his birthday, which will be rare larks.”
“A letter!” inquired Ratman, who had watched the not altogether delighted expression on his friend’s face as he read it. “Good news? May I read it?”
“If you like,” said the captain, tossing it across the table.
Ratman, who evidently had a better appreciation of juvenile vagaries than the father, read it with an amused smile on his face.