With a groan Captain Oliphant flung down the second bank-note on the table.
“Take it, you coward! and may it help you to perdition!”
“Thanks, very much,” said Ratman, carefully putting away the money. “I’m not going to ask you where the money came from. That would be painful. Ah, Teddy, my boy, what a nice, respectable family man you are, to be sure!”
With which acknowledgment Mr Ratman, in capital spirits, returned to his room. On the way he encountered Tom, who, being of a forgiving disposition, owed him no grudge for the trouble that had occurred at breakfast-time.
“Hullo, Mr Ratty!” said the boy; “going out? Aren’t you looking forward to the party to-night? I am. Only I’m afraid they’ll make a mess of it among them. Auntie’s ill and in bed, Rosalind and Roger are spooning about in the grounds, Armstrong’s got the dismals, and the governor’s not to be disturbed. I’ve got to look after everything. The spread will be good enough—only I think they ought to have roasted an ox whole in the hall; don’t you? That’s the proper way to do things, instead of kickshaws and things with French names that one can swallow at a gulp. I say, there’s to be a dance first. I’ll introduce you to some of the old girls if you like. It won’t be much fun for me, for Jill has made me promise to dance every dance with her, for fear you should want one. But I know a chap or two that will take her off my hands. I say, would you like to see my den?” added he, as they passed the door in question.
Mr Ratman being of an inquiring turn of mind, accepted the invitation, and gave a cursory glance at the chaos which formed the leading feature of the apartment.
“It’s not such a swagger crib as Roger’s,” said Tom; “but it’s snug enough. That’s Roger’s opposite. Like to look?”
Once more Mr Ratman allowed himself to be escorted on a tour of discovery.
“Who is that a portrait of?” asked he, looking at the lost Roger’s picture.
“Oh, that’s what’s his name, the fellow who would have been heir if he hadn’t died. He looks rather a tough customer, doesn’t he? That’s the picture Rosalind painted for Roger’s birthday—a view of the park from her window, with the sea beyond. Not so bad, is it? Rosalind thinks she’s no end of an artist, but I—”