Tom took the proffered cigar without another word, and did his best first to light and then to smoke it as if he were an experienced smoker.
“Who’s your fwend?” inquired Gus’s languid acquaintance.
“By the way,” said that young man, “I’ve never introduced you two. Mortimer, allow me to introduce you to my friend Tom Drift.”
Mr Mortimer gave a nod which Tom felt he would like greatly to have at his command, there was something so very knowing and familiar about it.
“It was Tom got up that little race party I was telling you of, Jack, you know. He’s a regular sporting card. By the way, what’s become of that little mooney-face prig we took with us that day; eh, Tom?”
Tom was out in midstream now, floating fast out to sea.
“Who—oh, young Newcome?” said he; “he’s still at Randlebury.”
“Young puppy! You never knew such a spree as that was, Jack,” said Gus; and then he launched forth into a highly-spiced account of the eventful expedition to Gurley races, contriving to represent Tom as the hero of the day, greatly to that youth’s discomfort and confusion, and no less to the amusement of Mr Mortimer.
“Here we are at last,” said Gus, as the trio arrived at a gorgeously illuminated and decorated restaurant.
Tom’s heart sunk within him. More than ever did he wish himself back in his dull lodgings, never again to set foot abroad, if only he could have got out of this fix. But there was no drawing back.