The Queen's Scarlet Part 5

"If you made it often, S'Richard, you wouldn't be very far out."

"Well, often then. His studies worry him, I suppose."

Jerry made a peculiar grimace.

"And he has had a little trouble once or twice with Mr Draycott."

"Yes, S'Richard, he ayve."

"There, I'll speak to him, Jerry. He doesn't mean anything by it, for he's a good fellow at heart; and when he feels that he has hurt your feelings I daresay it will mean an apology, and--perhaps something else."

"Thankye, S'Richard, thankye," said the man. "I know'd you'd say something o' that sort, but don't you speak to him. It wouldn't do no good. He wouldn't 'pologise to such as me; and as to a tip--not him!

There, S'Richard, it's all right now. It did me good to say all that out to a real gentleman, and--pst!--Any more orders, S'Richard?"

"Eh?" said Richard, wondering at the man's manner. "No, thank you; that's all. What's the matter?"

"Pst! S'Richard," whispered the man hurriedly. "Talk of the No-we-never-mentions-him, and you see his--"

The door opened with a crash, and made the pictures swing upon the wall, while Jerry drew on one side to let the fresh-comer enter the room.

CHAPTER FOUR.

MARK IN A HOLE.

"Hullo, thick-head! loafing again."

It was a dark, olive-complexioned young fellow, of Sir Richard's age, who swung into the opening noisily, cigarette in mouth.

"Not loafing, Mr Frayne, sir," said the man in an injured tone, as he fixed his eyes on the rather handsome student who had entered the room, and took in at a glance his white flannels and yellow-striped blazer, from the breast-pocket of which a thick gold chain was hanging. "Beg pardon, sir; you'll be losing your watch-chain's out o' b.u.t.tonhole."

"Well, what business is it of yours, idiot? If I lose it, you might find it. Perquisites--eh, Jerry?"

"There, S'Richard," said the man, flus.h.i.+ng. "Now, ain't that as good as sayin' I'd steal a watch? I'd take my oath I never--"

"That will do, Jerry," said Sir Richard, sternly. "You needn't wait.-- Why can't you leave the fellow alone, Mark?"

"Why can't you act like a gentleman, and not be always making friends with the servants?" retorted the young fellow addressed. "So that's it, is it? The confounded sneak comes tattling to you, does he?"

"No!" cried Sir Richard, rather gruffly; "but he did complain of your forgetting yourself and throwing things at him."

"Oh, did he?" cried Mark Frayne, catching up the nearest thing, which was the model his cousin had been making, and hurling it at the offender, but without effect, for Jeremiah Brigley already had the door open and darted out; the panel receiving the model instead of his head.

Sir Richard Frayne sprang to his feet to save his model, but too late; it fell, s.h.i.+vered, to the carpet, and the new-comer burst into a roar of laughter.

"I don't see anything to grin at," said his cousin, indignantly.

"Not you!" said the other, letting himself down on to the keyboard of the piano with a loud musical crash, and laughing heartily all the time.

"Why don't you get on with your work? Anyone would think you were in training for a cat-gut sc.r.a.per at a low theatre instead of for an officer and a gentleman."

"Mark, old chap," said Sir Richard, good-humouredly, as, with rather a rueful look, he picked up his broken model, "every man to his taste. I like music; you like dogs."

"Yes; and they make a precious sight better music than ever you do.

Soldier! Pooh! You haven't the heart of a c.o.c.kroach in you. Thank goodness, you'll soon have to do your exam. That'll open your eyes, and I shall be glad of it. If I were you, I'd try for an engagement in a band somewhere, for you'll never get a commission."

"Perhaps not," said Sir Richard, quietly. "But what's the matter with you, old chap? Been having a row with Draycott?"

"Draycott's a b.u.mptious, pedantic old fool. Fancies he knows everything. A brute!"

"Take a couple of pills, Mark; your liver's out of order."

"Put an angel's liver out of order to be here! I won't put up with much more of it, and so I'll tell him. I shall dress as I like, and do as I like, even if I haven't got a handle to my name. Sir Richard, indeed!-- a pattern for me to follow! Next time the fat old idiot say's that to me, I'll throw the books at his head."

"Oh, that's it, is it?"

"Yes; that's it, is it!" cried Mark Frayne in an angry tone. "I tell you I'm sick of it!"

"Nonsense! What had you been doing?" said Richard, fighting down a feeling of resentment, and looking smilingly at his cousin.

"What's that to you?" growled Mark.

"Not much; but I wanted to help the lame dog over the stile."

"Look here," cried Mark, fiercely; "none of that. If you want to insult me, say so right out, and then I shall know what you mean. None of your covert allusions."

Richard Frayne laughed outright, and his cousin took a step forward menacingly.

"Why, what has come to you?" cried the former. "Don't be so peppery. I want to help you, if I can."

"Do you?" cried Mark, eagerly. "There, I'm sorry I spoke so sharply.

That brute Simpson has been writing to Draycott."

"Simpson, the tailor? What has he got to write about?"

Mark Frayne scowled, and gave a kick out with his leg, but did not answer.

"Have you been running a bill with him?"

Mark nodded.

"Then why don't you pay it?"

"Why don't I pay it?" snarled Mark. "Am I a baronet with plenty of money?"

"No; but you have as good an allowance as I. You ought to be able to pay your tailor's bill."

"'Tisn't a bill for clothes," said Mark, sulkily, and he picked up a book, opened it, and threw it impatiently across the room, making his cousin wince a little.