He fidgeted, and seeing that I paid him no attention, but went on with my chocolate, he drew a paper from his pocket and opened it.
“You have spent a prodigious sum, sir, for so short a time,” said he, unsteadily. “'Tis very well for you, Mr. Carvel, but I have to remember that you are heir only. I am advancing you money without advices from his Worship, your grandfather. A most irregular proceeding, sir, and one likely to lead me to trouble. I know not what your allowance may be.”
“Nor I, Mr. Dix,” I replied, unreasonably enough. “To speak truth, I have never had one. You have my Lord Comyn's signature to protect you,” I went on ill-naturedly, for I had not had enough sleep. “And in case Mr. Carvel protests, which is unlikely and preposterous, you shall have ten percentum on your money until I can pay you. That should be no poor investment.”
He apologized. But he smoothed out the paper on his knee.
“It is only right to tell you, Mr. Carvel, that you have spent one thousand eight hundred and thirty-seven odd pounds, in home money, which is worth more than your colonial. Your grandfather's balance with me was something less than one thousand five hundred, as I made him a remittance in December last. I have advanced the rest. And yesterday,” he went on, resolutely for him, “yesterday I got an order for five hundred more.”
And he handed me the paper. I must own that the figures startled me. I laid it down with a fine show of indifference.
“And so you wish me to stop drawing? Very good, Mr. Dix.”
He must have seen some threat implied, though I meant none. He was my very humble servant at once, and declared he had called only to let me know where I stood. Then he bowed himself out, wishing me luck with the horse he had heard of, and I lighted my pipe with his accompt.