“Really think so?” inquired Ernest, pleased.
“Enough for ten ordinary people,” they declared. “Got a fi’pun note about you?”
Also, they gave him sound advice in regard to keeping well in with the governor: a dinner was arranged at a club to which one of them belonged, and, at the expense of Ernest, Mr. Rollinson was entertained, and made much of; Wilner (who had been twice through the Bankruptcy Court, using up several pails of whitewash and coming out not quite clean)—Wilner made a speech, proposing old Rollinson’s health, declaring that their guest was one of the bulwarks of the nation, and that his well-equipped son would, later on, when he had finished looking about, become one of the foremost men in the State. Privately, Wilner told Mr. Rollinson that all our best politicians had sown their wild oats in early days, and gave an amusing and little-known anecdote concerning a member of the Cabinet.
“What he wants,” said old Rollinson, glancing at his son, “is concentration, if you know what it means, sir.”
“That will grow on him,” remarked the other lightly. “All he has to do just now is to make plenty of friends. And it isn’t for a mere amateur like myself to give advice to an experienced man of the world like George Rollinson—”
Oddly enough, the term had never before been applied to him. Old Rollinson fixed his cigar at a more rakish angle.
“But if I were you, I should see that, for a year or two at any rate, he was not stinted of money.” Wilner gazed reflectively at his glass of claret. “I’ve seen so many youngsters, fine, promising, delightful lads, go to the deuce just for want of a few paltry hundreds. And you needn’t begrudge it, you know. By all accounts you make it easily enough.”
The rest of the dinner-party, once they had, as Wilner neatly phrased it, put off the old man, went to the Argyll Rooms, and later to Bob Croft’s in the Haymarket (no use in going to Croft’s until midnight), where Ernest insisted upon playing the harp, with the aid of his walking-stick; when the police came to make their usual nightly round, Ernest demanded the company of the Inspector in the Varsoviana. Wilner and the others were satisfied with the efforts of their pupil and allowed him, at his special request, to pay for everything. This was the occasion when Ernest lighted a cigar with one of the notes given to him by his father, and found some difficulty in making the paper burn.
There were times when Ernest, troubled with remorse and a severe headache, spoke of giving it all up, and returning to Bloomsbury Square; the bodyguard had to use their best powers of derision. An accusation of want of pluck generally proved effective; later, a slip of the pen on the part of Ernest gave them a better hold, and they had only to draw his attention to the punishment awarded by the law for forgery. Old Rollinson fell ill, in consequence of a chill sustained on the steamboat returning from Greenwich after his new doctor had ordered him a sea voyage, and the remittances stopped. A new and promising-looking pigeon flew into the district of the Circus; Wilner and his colleagues dropped the acquaintance of Ernest, who could find no better companion than a wise young housemaid at Jermyn Street. The girl gave him good advice and went with him to Bloomsbury Square, waiting at the railings whilst he entered to see his father, to make frank avowals, and to impersonate the prodigal son. He came out in less than half an hour, and it seemed at once evident that the fatted calf was still alive.
“Says I’ve disappointed him,” reported Ernest tearfully, “and that he never wants to see me again. Declares he did his best for me, and all I’ve done has been to spend nearly every penny he gained, and there’s nothing to show for it, excepting a good-for-nothing, broken-down young man. And mother agreed with him.”