Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England Volume 1, Chapter I. AMONGST THE PLUNGERS. "Hullo! Markworth. How lucky! Why you are just the man I want; you're ubiquitous, who'd have thought of seeing you in town?" said Tom Hartshorne, of the --th Dragoons, cheerily, as he sauntered late one summer afternoon into a private billiard-room in Oxford-street, where a tall, dark-complexioned, and strikingly-handsome man, was knocking the balls about in his shirt-sleeves, and trying all sorts of fancy shots against the cushions--The sole occupant of the room was he, with the exception of the marker, who was looking on in a desultory sort of way at the strokes of the player from his thronelike chair underneath the scoring board. "Hullo! Tom, by all that's holy! And what brings you to Babylon? I left Boulogne last week, and ran up to see what the `boys' were after; so here I am, quite at your service. What can I do for you, Tom? Are you hard up, in a row, or run away with your neighbour's wife? Unbosom yourself, _caro mio_." "No, I'm all right, old chap; but nothing could be better. By Jove! it's the very thing!" "Who? Why? What? Enlighten me, Tom." "Well, you see, Markworth, I've got to go down to-morrow for my annual week to my mother's place in Sussex. It will be so awfully slow; just fancy, old chap, a whole week in that dreary old country house, with no company, no shooting, no fishing, no anything! Why, it's enough to kill a fellow!" "Poor Tom," observed Markworth, sympathisingly. "Yes; but that's not the worst either, old chap. My mother is very cranky, you know, and the house itself is as dull as ditch-water. You have to go to bed and get up by clockwork; and if one should be late at dinner, or in turning in, why, it is thought more of by the ruling powers than the worst sin in the decalogue. Besides, I have to keep straight and humour the old lady--for I am quite dependent on her until I come of age; and, though she's very fond of me in her sort of way, she cuts up rough sometimes, and would stop supplies in a moment if I should offend her." "Dutiful infant! I pity your sorrows, Tom; but what can I do to help you?" "I'm just coming to that; but we may as well have a game by the way, while we're talking." "Certainly; how many points shall I give you? The usual number, eh? Score up, fifteen to spot, marker," he said, turning to the little man, who, with a face of dull impassiveness, was sitting bolt upright, like Neptune with his trident, holding the billiard-rest in a perpendicular position, apparently hearing nothing, although his eyes twinkled every now and then. "You lead, Tom, of course." "All right, here goes; but, to return to what we were speaking about. You can help me very much, Markworth." "Can I? That's a good cannon, you mustn't play all through like that, Tom, or you'll beat me easily; but, go on, and tell me what you want."