“Yes; it’s Brian. I thought I might be able to see you. By Jove! you haven’t altered a bit, my cousin of the queer name. Of course you’re bigger, but you’ve still got that angelic face and that maiden air of goodness. I’ll put you into a poem some day, only no one will believe I’ve drawn you from life. There, let’s stop jesting; I want you to help me. The truth of the matter is, there’s been a kick-up between my father and myself; we never did hit it; his ways are not my ways, and he’s a blackguard, and not with my sort of blackguardism either.” He laughed, and clapped a hand on Comethup’s shoulder. “Look here, old boy, I’m not envying you the plums of life you’ve got, but I want—oh, I have the right, as far as that goes—I want you to help me.”
“Why, of course,” began Comethup, “if I can——”
“You can do everything. According to my father, you stole my birthright from me, you rascal, although that wasn’t your fault. Some of us get the bread in this world, and the others, for all the asking, get the stone. Let’s cut all this and come to the point. I’m going to London; it’s the only place where a man with brains—and I am a man now, although I am only eighteen, and I know I’ve got the brains—it’s the only place where a man can do anything, or show what stuff is in him. In the country, among these grinning, slow, dead-and-alive yokels, one can’t move; one seems to get stuck in their beastly clayey soil, and to take root there and never to move again. London’s the place; I saw it once when I was a boy; I’ve dreamed of it ever since. I know what I can do there; I’ll make men recognise me. But I’m a beggar, so far as money is concerned, and I’m heavily in debt. I don’t care a hang about the debts; dad’ll have to pay them; that was what the row was about. However, it’s his own fault, and in any case it doesn’t matter now. What I want to know is this: can you let me have enough money to take me to London, and give me a bit over until I find my feet? I know you’ve got plenty, and I don’t know any one else to whom I can turn. I knew you were here, because I saw the captain—that old starched chap—a day or two back, and he told me where you were.”
“I’ll gladly help you,” said Comethup. “How much money do you want? I am afraid I haven’t very much.”
“Well, have you got five pounds you can spare?”
Now it happened that within the past year Miss Charlotte Carlaw, in the pride of her heart, had been in the habit of breaking her promise to the captain and forwarding sums of money to Comethup whenever she could find an excuse for so doing—whenever, for instance, he had made a big score at cricket, or had written her a letter with which she was particularly pleased. Moreover, as every bill—and they were not many—which he contracted was promptly paid, without question, by his aunt, he found it somewhat difficult, as a mere schoolboy, to get rid of all the money he had, although it seemed to slip through his fingers pretty quickly. Only on the previous day Miss Carlaw had sent him twenty pounds in bank notes, with a message to the effect that, as he was visiting the captain, he would probably want some money to spend, and ten pounds was for that; and, as he was now a gentleman at large and his school days were left behind, he would want some further money in his pocket, and ten pounds was for that.
“I don’t think five pounds is much good to you,” said Comethup. “Hadn’t you better take ten?”
“By all means,” exclaimed Brian, with much alacrity. “Hadn’t the least idea you’d got so much. By George! I shall be a millionaire; ten pounds will last a deuce of a long time.”
Comethup put his hand into his pocket and produced the money. “Don’t you think,” he said, “that it would be better for you to go and see my aunt—your aunt, too, you know—and tell her what you mean to do? She’s awfully good, and I know that she——”
“No, thanks, I’d rather not; I had one experience with the old girl, and that was enough. Oh, I’ll get on capitally. And if I want anything more, I can easily come to you. You won’t mind, will you?”