"Take him away!" shouted Tom. "I tell you I'll not be pestered at this hour! I might be asleep, damme! Tell the fellow to come again at a godly time—not at dawn! Now, don't try to argue, Moggat! I tell you, if it were my brother himself, I'd not see him!"

Moggat bowed again.

"I will hinform the gentleman, sir."

When the door closed behind Moggat, Tom leaned back in his chair and picked up one of his letters. Not five minutes later the door creaked again. Tom turned, to find Moggat at his elbow.

"Eh? What d'ye want?"

"Hif you please, sir, the gentleman says as how he is your brother," said Moggat gently.

Tom jumped as though he had been shot.

"What? My brother? What d'ye mean? My brother?"

"Sir Maurice, sir."

Up flew Tom, catching at his wig and cramming it on his head all awry.

"Thunder an' turf! Maurry! Here, you raving wooden-pate! How dare you leave my brother downstairs? How dare you, I say?" He wrapped himself more tightly in his robe than ever, and dashed headlong out of the room, down the stairs to where Maurice awaited him.

Sir Maurice was standing by the window in the library, drumming his fingers on the sill. At his brother's tempestuous entrance he turned and bowed.

"A nice welcome you give me, Tom! 'Tell him to come again at a godly time—I'd not see him if 'twere my brother himself,' forsooth!"

Thomas hopped across the room and seized both Maurice's long, thin hands in his plump, chubby ones.

"My dear Maurry! My dear old fellow! I'd no notion 'twas you! My dolt of a lackey—but there! When did you arrive in England?"

"A week ago. I have been at the Pride."

"A week? What a plague d'ye mean by not coming to me till now, ye rogue?" As he spoke, Tom thrust Maurice into a chair, and himself sat down opposite him, beaming with pleasure.

 Prev. P 9/162 next