“So you knew the old dog, Brown?” he repeated.
“Knew him?—of course I did. Dear old Jack! How well he wears; he is scarcely altered at all.”
“Very little; only steadier. More than I can say for his master. I'm very glad you knew Jack.”
“Come, Drysdale; take the other end of the sofa or it won't look like old times. There, now I can fancy myself back at St. Ambrose's.”
“By Jove, Brown, you're a real good fellow; I always said so, even after that last letter. You pitched it rather strong in that though. I was very near coming back from Norway to quarrel with you.”
“Well, I was very angry at being left in the lurch by you and Blake.”
“You got the coin all right, I suppose? You never acknowledged it.”
“Didn't I? Then I ought to have. Yes, I got it all right about six months afterwards. I ought to have acknowledged it, and I thought I had. I'm sorry I didn't. Now we're all quits, and won't talk any more about that rascally bill.”
“I suppose I may light up,” said Drysdale, dropping into his old lounging attitude on the sofa, and pulling out his cigar-case.
“Yes, of course. Will you have anything?”