“Good. He gets a commission. I say, you must come and see us, you know. Remember, no allusions to the Complete Speech-maker—eh?”
“Not a word. Though, I say, it beats me how you came to think of it.”
“Genius, my boy—pure genius. When you get your speech you will be proud of me. What’s a practice at the Bar compared with a practice at the after-dinner table? And now, Fred, why Barlow?”
“Well, you remember what happened?” His brother nodded, and dropped his eyes. “Absurd fuss they made.”
“Nobody has heard anything about you for five-and-twenty years.”
“I took another name—a fighting name. Barlow, I called myself—Joseph Barlow. Joe—there’s fight in the very name. No sympathy, no weakening about Joe.”
“Yes. For my own part, I took the name of Crediton. Respectability rather than aggressiveness in that name. Confidence was what I wanted.”
“Tell me about the family. Remember that it was in 1874 that I went away—twenty-five years ago.”
His brother gave him briefly an account of the births and deaths. His mother was dead; his elder brother was dead, leaving an only son.
“As for Algernon’s death,” said the speech-merchant, “it was a great blow. He was really going to distinguish himself. And he died—died at thirty-two. His son is in the House. They say he promises well. He’s a scholar, I believe; they say he can speak; and he’s more than a bit of a prig.”