“The long and the short of it, Fred, is this: I am not going to give, or to lend, or to advance, any money to you at all. Put that in your pipe.”
“Oh!” Fred helped himself to another whisky-and-water. “You won’t, eh? Then, what do you think of my blowing this flourishing concern of yours, eh?”
Christopher changed colour.
“What do you think, Christopher, of my going to call on Pembridge Crescent, and letting out in the most natural and casual way in the world, that I’ve just come from the rooms in Chancery Lane where you carry on your business?”
“Fred, you—you—you are a most infernal scoundrel!”
“What business? asks my sister-in-law. What business? asks my niece. What business? asks my nephew. Why, says I, don’t you know? Hasn’t he told you? Quite a flourishing income—almost as flourishing as Barlow Brothers. It’s in the Fraudulent Speech Supply Line. That’s a pretty sort of shell to drop in the middle of your family circle, isn’t it?”
“Fred, you were always the most cold-blooded villain that ever walked.”
“That’s what I shall do, my dear brother. More than that, I shall go and see Leonard. That aristocratic young gentleman, who thinks so much about his family, will be greatly pleased, will he not?”
We need not follow the conversation, which became at this point extremely animated. Memories long since supposed to be forgotten and buried and put away were revived, with comments satirical, indignant, or contemptuous. Language of the strongest was employed. The office boy put down his novelette, and wondered what Jack Harkaway would do under such circumstances. Indeed, the past lives of the two brothers lent themselves singularly to the recollection of romantic adventures and episodes of a startling character. Presently—we are not Cain and Abel—the conversation became milder. Some kind of compromise began to be considered.
“Well, I don’t mind,” said Fred at length. “I don’t care so long as I can get the money. But I must have the money—or some money—and that before long.”