I have not made up my mind to do. He thinks that by taking you off my hands he will put me under an obligation. So he will.”
“Uncle,” said Sam impressively, “I will make good.”
“You’d better,” returned Mr. Pynsent, unmelted.{17} “It is your last chance. There is no earthly reason why I should go on supporting you for the rest of your life, and I do not intend to do it. If you make a mess of things at Tilbury House, don’t think that you can come running back to me. There will be no fatted calf. Remember that.”
{17}
“I will, uncle, I will. But don’t worry. Something tells me I am going to be good. I shall like going to England.”
“I am glad to hear that. Well, that is all. Good afternoon.”
“You know, it’s rather strange that you should be sending me over there,” said Sam meditatively.
“I don’t think so. I am glad to have the chance.”
“What I mean is—do you believe in palmists?”
“I do not. Good-bye.”
“Because a palmist told me——”
“The door,” said Mr. Pynsent, “is one of those which close automatically when the handle is released.”
Having tested this statement and proved it correct, Sam went back to his own quarters, where he found Mr. Clarence (Hash) Todhunter, the popular and energetic chef of the tramp steamer Araminta, awake and smoking a short pipe.
“Who was the old boy?” inquired Mr. Todhunter.
“That was my uncle, the head of the firm.”
“Did I go to sleep in his room?”
“You did.”
“I’m sorry about that, Sam,” said Hash, with manly regret. “I had a late night last night.”
He yawned spaciously. Hash Todhunter was a lean, stringy man in the early thirties, with a high forehead{18} and a ruminative eye. Irritated messmates who had played poker with him had sometimes compared this eye to that of a perishing fish; but to the critic whose judgment was not biased and inflamed by recent pecuniary losses
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