He was very kind to Altamont now: he listened to the Colonel’s loud stories when Altamont described how—when he was working his way home once from New Zealand, where he had been on a whaling expedition—he and his comrades had been obliged to slink on board at night, to escape from their wives, by Jove—and how the poor devils put out in their canoes when they saw the ship under sail, and paddled madly after her: how he had been lost in the bush once for three months in New South Wales, when he was there once on a trading speculation: how he had seen Boney at Saint Helena, and been presented to him with the rest of the officers of the Indiaman of which he was a mate—to all these tales (and over his cups Altamont told many of them; and, it must be owned, lied and bragged a great deal) Sir Francis now listened with great attention; making a point of drinking wine with Altamont at dinner and of treating him with every distinction.
“Leave him alone, I know what he’s a-coming to,” Altamont said, laughing to Strong, who remonstrated with him, “and leave me alone; I know what I’m a-telling, very well. I was officer on board an Indiaman, so I was; I traded to New South Wales, so I did, in a ship of my own, and lost her. I became officer to the Nawaub, so I did; only me and my royal master have had a difference, Strong—that’s it. Who’s the better or the worse for what I tell? or knows anything about me? The other chap is dead—shot in the bush, and his body reckonised at Sydney. If I thought anybody would split, do you think I wouldn’t wring his neck? I’ve done as good before now, Strong—I told you how I did for the overseer before I took leave—but in fair fight, I mean—in fair fight; or, rayther, he had the best of it. He had his gun and bay’net, and I had only an axe. Fifty of ’em saw it—ay, and cheered me when I did it—and I’d do it again,—him, wouldn’t I? I ain’t afraid of anybody; and I’d have the life of the man who split upon me. That’s my maxim, and pass me the liquor.—You wouldn’t turn on a man. I know you. You’re an honest feller, and will stand by a feller, and have looked death in the face like a man. But as for that lily-livered sneak—that poor lyin’ swindlin’ cringin’ cur of a Clavering—who stands in my shoes—stands in my shoes, hang him! I’ll make him pull my boots off and clean ’em, I will. Ha, ha!” Here he burst out into a wild laugh, at which Strong got up and put away the brandy-bottle. The other still laughed good-humouredly. “You’re right, old boy,” he said; “you always keep your head cool, you do—and when I begin to talk too much—I say, when I begin to pitch, I authorise you, and order you, and command you, to put away the rum-bottle.”
“Take my counsel, Altamont,” Strong said, gravely, “and mind how you deal with that man. Don’t make it too much his interest to get rid of you; or who knows what he may do?”
The event for which, with cynical enjoyment, Altamont had been on the look-out, came very speedily. One day, Strong being absent upon an errand for his principal, Sir Francis made his appearance in the chambers, and found the envoy of the Nawaub alone. He abused the world in general for being heartless and unkind to him: he abused his wife for being ungenerous to him; he abused Strong for being ungrateful—hundreds of pounds had he given Ned Strong—been his friend for life and kept him out of gaol, by Jove,—and now Ned was taking her ladyship’s side against him and abetting her in her infernal unkind treatment of him. “They’ve entered into a conspiracy to keep me penniless, Altamont,” the Baronet said: “they don’t give me as much pocket money as Frank has at school.”
“Why don’t you go down to Richmond and borrow of him, Clavering?” Altamont broke out with a savage laugh. “He wouldn’t see his poor old beggar of a father without pocket-money, would he?”
“I tell you, I’ve been obliged to humiliate myself cruelly” Clavering said. “Look here, sir—look here, at these pawn-tickets! Fancy a Member of Parliament and an old English Baronet, by Gad! obliged to put a drawing-room clock and a buhl inkstand up the spout; and a gold duck’s-head paper-holder, that I dare say cost my wife five pound, for which they’d only give me fifteen-and-six! Oh, it’s a humiliating thing, sir, poverty to a man of my habits; and it’s made me shed tears, sir,—tears; and that d——d valet of mine—curse him, I wish he was hanged!—he had the confounded impudence to threaten to tell my lady: as the things in my own house weren’t my own, to sell or to keep, or fling out of window if I chose—by Gad! the confounded scoundrel.
“Cry a little; don’t mind cryin’ before me—it’ll relieve you Clavering,” the other said. “Why, I say, old feller, what a happy feller I once thought you, and what a miserable son of a gun you really are!”
“It’s a shame that they treat me so, ain’t it?” Clavering went on,—for, though ordinarily silent and apathetic, about his own griefs the Baronet could whine for an hour at a time. “And—and, by Gad, sir, I haven’t got the money to pay the very cab that’s waiting for me at the door; and the porteress, that Mrs. Bolton, lent me three shillin’s, and I don’t like to ask her for any more: and I asked that d——d old Costigan, the confounded old penniless Irish miscreant, and he hadn’t got a shillin’, the beggar; and Campion’s out of town, or else he’d do a little bill for me, I know he would.”
“I thought you swore on your honour to your wife that you wouldn’t put your name to paper,” said Mr. Altamont, puffing at his cigar.
“Why does she leave me without pocket-money, then? Damme, I must have money,” cried out the Baronet. “Oh, Am——, oh, Altamont, I’m the most miserable beggar alive.”