With such an ally at my back, the chances of
failure seemed almost negligible.
"Well, Roger," he cried in his bluff strong voice (though I noticed it
was discreetly lowered while there was any one within earshot), "I hear
you've taken to liquor so badly that your friends have got to remove you
from society! We always did think it would come to something of this
kind; eh, Jack?"
"He always was a bad egg, sir," said my cousin. "I don't mind betting he
hasn't brushed his beard."
"And that limp!" added Sir Francis. "Gad, I believe he's been kicked
downstairs by an indignant husband!"
However, he pressed my arm as he laughed, and it was not a
critical pressure.
"I can't shave owing to my shaky hand," I explained, "and the limp is
port in the big toe."
"Port?" exclaimed my uncle. "No, no, my dear fellow, it's whisky
poisoning you suffer from. You began in secret in your sixteenth year and
have been a trouble to your friends since you were twenty-one. However,
I've got all the particulars written out for you, and mind you get 'em
into your head and don't contradict yourself or me when you go to live
with that doctor fellow."
Jack winked at me from the shelter of our respected uncle's back and I
hid a responsive smile. With all his virtues, Sir Francis Merton had
never been fond of playing second fiddle, and this masterful seizure of
our scheme and dictation of all the details was exceedingly
characteristic.
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