“‘On my account?’
“‘Yes. I wrote to England some days ago, urging friends of mine in high places to get you a snug berth, and to-day I have received answers.’
“‘Well?’
“‘No, ill—cold comfort enough. Lots of promises, but with an unmistakeable hint that many are to be served before me, and that we must wait several months—which with those people means several years—before there will be a chance of a good wind blowing your way. I am infernally sorry for it.’
“‘And I also,’ I replied, mournfully. There was a short pause.
“‘How are you off for the sinews of war?’ said Darvel.
“‘You may find some small change on the chimney-piece—my last money.’
“‘The devil! This won’t do. We must fill your exchequer somehow. You must be taken care of, my boy.’
“‘Easy to say,’ I answered, ‘but how? Unless you win me a lottery prize, or show me a hidden treasure, my purse is likely to continue empty.’