'Mr. Daffy,' he said, 'if _you_ don't mind, I should like to have a word in
private with your son. Do you and Mr. Bowles go on to the station, and wait
for me; perhaps I shall catch you up before you get there.'
'I have told you already, Mr. Lott,' shouted Charles, 'that I can waste no
more time on you. I refuse to talk with you at all.'
'And I, Mr. Charles Daffy,' was the resolute answer, 'refuse to leave this
room till I have had a word with you.'
'What do you want to say?' asked Charles brutally.
'Just to let you know an idea of mine,' was the reply, 'an idea that's come
to me whilst I've stood here listening.'
The tailor and Mr. Bowles moved towards the door. Charles glanced at them
fiercely and insolently, then turned his look again upon the man who
remained. The other two passed out; the door closed. Mr. Lott, stick and
riding-whip still held horizontally, seemed to be lost in meditation.
'Now,' blurted Charles, 'what is it?'
Mr. Lott regarded him steadily, and spoke with his wonted deliberation.
'You heard what your father said about paying that money back?'
'Of course I heard. If he's idiot enough--'
'Do you know _my_ idea, young man? You'd better do the honest thing, and
repay it yourself.
Pages:
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356