Henry bustled about, and handed a dish or two.
“I don't want these cold things; haven't you kept me any gudgeon?”
“Why sir” said Henry, “there was only two dozen this morning, and Mr. Drysdale told me to cook them all.
“To be sure I did,” said Drysdale. “Just half a dozen for each of us four: they were first-rate. If you can't get here at half-past nine, you won't get gudgeon, I can tell you.”
“Just go and get me a broil from the kitchen,” said the Honorable Piers, without deigning an answer to Drysdale.
“Very sorry, sir; kitchen's shut by now, sir,” answered Henry.
“Then go to Hinton's, and order some cutlets.”
“I say, Henry,” shouted Drysdale to the retreating scout; “not to my tick, mind! Put them down to Mr. St. Cloud.”
Henry seemed to know very well that in that case he might save himself the trouble of the journey, and consequently returned to his waiting; and the Honorable Piers set to work upon his breakfast, without showing any further ill temper certainly, except by the stinging things which he threw every now and then into the conversation, for the benefit of each of the others in turn.
Tom thought he detected signs of coming hostilities between his host and St. Cloud, for Drysdale seemed to prick up his ears and get combative whenever the other spoke, and lost no chance in roughing him in his replies. And, indeed, he was not far wrong; the fact being, that during Drysdale's first term, the other had lived on him—drinking his wine, smoking his cigars, driving his dog-cart, and winning his money; all which Drysdale, who was the easiest going and best tempered fellow in Oxford, had stood without turning a hair. But St. Cloud added to these little favors a half patronizing, half contemptuous manner, which he used with great success towards some of the other gentleman-commoners, who thought it a mark of high breeding, and the correct thing, but which Drysdale, who didn't care three straws about knowing St. Cloud, wasn't going to put up with.