“I say, draw it mild, Wray, you know,” interposed Pembury. “You needn’t include me in your compliments.”
Wraysford glared at him a moment and then coloured slightly.
“You don’t call Oliver a cheat?” he said, inquiringly.
“I shouldn’t till I was cock-sure of the fact,” replied the cautious editor of the Dominican.
“Do you mean to say you aren’t sure?” said Wraysford.
Pembury vouchsafed no answer, but whistled to himself.
“All I can say is,” said Bullinger, who was one of Wraysford’s chums, “it looks uncommonly ugly, if what Simon says is true.”
“I don’t believe a word that ass says.”
“Oh, but,” began Simon, with a most aggravating cheerfulness, “I assure you I’m not telling a lie, Wraysford. I’m sorry I said anything about it. I never thought there would be a row about it. I promise I’ll not mention it to anybody.”
“You blockhead! who cares for your promises? I don’t believe you.”