“That was exactly the subject about which the kid and I were playing catch just now,” said Pridgin. “I asked him to go to Crofter too.”
“What, has he been sending you a billet-doux?” said Tempest.
“Well, yes. He seems to be sore I didn’t ask him to tea yesterday, and says he’s afraid some one has been libelling him, though how he knew I had any one here last night I can’t imagine.”
“That’s funny,” said Tempest; “he writes to me to say he is sorry I should take the trouble to call him a beast in public. He understands a fellow’s right to his private opinion, he says, and would be sorry not to be allowed his about me, but he thinks it imprudent to shout it out for every one to hear. Just his style.”
“I was going to send him word to ask him to come in and make himself a cup of tea out of my pot, just to show there was no ill-feeling,” said Pridgin.
“And I was going to say that I hope he won’t trouble to think better of me in private then I think of him in public. Though for the life of me I can’t imagine what he refers to.”
“The fact is. Tempest,” said Pridgin, putting his feet up on the window-ledge again, “it’s just as well to be above board with Crofter. He’s a slippery customer, and if he knows what we think of him, and we know what he thinks of us, we shall get on much better.”
“If he’d only give a chap a chance of a row with him,” said Tempest; “but he won’t. The more down on him you are, the more affectionate he is, and the sweeter he smiles. Ugh!”
“But who on earth has been blabbing to him?” said Pridgin; “not Wales?”
“Wales?” said Tempest; “rather not. He’s not that sort.”