Mr Ratman seemed inclined to accept the invitation; but as he was anxious for information just now, he decided to forego the experiment.
“Is your father at home?” he demanded.
“Rather. You’d better go back the way you came. We know all about you up there,” said Tom.
“That’s all right. And how are your pretty sisters, Tommy?”
If any insult more than another could disturb the temper of Master Oliphant, it was to be called “Tommy,” as many of the rustic youths of the neighbourhood knew to their cost. He therefore replied shortly, “Find out,” and proceeded to address himself to the task of remounting his machine.
“That’s what I’m going to do. Here, let me hold it for you, or you’ll break your neck.”
“Look here,” said the outraged Tom, thoroughly roused by this crowning indignity, “I don’t want to be seen out here talking to cads. I don’t mind fighting you. If you don’t care for that, keep your cheek to yourself, and go and talk to somebody who’s fond of rot. I’m not.” And the young bruiser, who had an uncommonly broad pair of shoulders, looked so threatening that Mr Ratman began to feel a little concerned.
“Ha, ha!” said he, “how well you do it! I always liked you, Tommy, my boy. I’ll let your tutor know what a credit you are to him.”
“I wish to goodness Armstrong was at home,” growled Tom; “he’d make you sit up.”
This was just the information Mr Ratman had been anxious to get. The prospect of encountering Mr Armstrong had interfered considerably with his pleasure in arranging this visit. But if he was out of the way—well, so much more the luck of Mr Ratman. Therefore, without wasting time in further parley with this possible brother-in-law, he proceeded jauntily on his way.