“I’m sure you describe the very man,” said Roger.
“Man? He was a boy; a raw-boned green boy, smarting under a sense of injustice, a regular, thorough-paced young Ishmaelite as you ever saw. I should fancy I did know him. But his name was not Ingleton.”
“What was it?”
“Jack Rogers.”
“No doubt he adopted his own Christian name as a disguise.”
“Very likely. I could never get him to talk about his people. His one object was to lose himself—body and soul—it seemed to me. Bless you, I had little enough voice in his proceedings. I was wild enough, but I promise you I was a milksop to him. Neck or nothing was his motto, and he lived up to it. The one drawback to success in his particular line was that he would insist on being a gentleman. Fatal complaint to any one who wants to go to the bad.”
“Have you any idea what became of my brother?”
“Not in the least. He knocked about with me for about a year, till he suddenly discovered he was living on me. Not that I minded; I had pots of money—it’s been my curse. Never had to do a day’s work in my life. He pulled up short at that, pawned his watch, and refused to take another crust of bread, and left me without a penny in his pocket. I only heard once of him afterwards. He wrote to enclose a five-pound note.”
“Have you got his letter? Can you remember where he wrote from?” asked Roger excitedly.
“I don’t believe there was a letter. The note was wrapped up in an old play-bill of some strolling company of actors. I remember it now,” added Fastnet, laughing and re-lighting his cigar. “Yes, it was Hamlet. Rogers was cast for the ghost in one act, Polonius in another, and the grave-digger in another. I remember how I roared when I read it. Fancy that fellow as Polonius!”