“But then, there is the waking up--the waking up--great God!” he shouted. “Then I see that I’m, after all, nothing but a worthless dog; that this man Skelton owns me; that I never will be anything but worthless and learned and drunken; that I’m no better than any other hanger-on, for all my Greek and Latin! However,” he added, stuffing his hands in his pockets and as suddenly laying aside his tragic air, “there never was such a hanger-on. Upon my soul, it’s a question whether Richard Skelton owns Wat Bulstrode, or Wat Bulstrode and the books own Richard Skelton. But look’ee here, boy, I had almost forgot you, and the dog too. I don’t envy Richard Skelton. No man pursues his enemy with gaiety of heart. He has spent more money in ruining Jack Blair than would have made ten good men prosperous; and, after all, it’s that passion of Blair’s for horse racing that will ruin him in the end. Gad! I don’t know that I’m any worse than Skelton, or any other man I know.--Why, hello! what the devil--” This last was involuntarily brought out by Skelton himself, who at that moment stood before him. Lewis had seen Skelton coming, and had vainly tugged at Bulstrode’s coat-tails without any effect. Whether Skelton’s philosophy commanded respect or not, his personality certainly did. He was about medium height, lean, dark, and well made. Also, whether he was handsome or not the world had not yet decided during all his forty years of life; but certain it was few men could look handsome beside him. His eyes, though, were singularly black and beautiful, like those of the boy standing by him. He was in riding dress, and held a little whip in his hand; he had ridden out to the harvest field, and then dismounted and left his horse while he walked through the stubble and clover. He had overheard much that Bulstrode had last said, and, in spite of his invincible composure, his face showed a silent rage and displeasure. Bulstrode and Lewis knew it by the sultry gleam of his black eyes. Bulstrode instantly lost his air of independence, and all of his efforts to retain it only resulted in a half-cowed swagger. “Bulstrode,” said Skelton in a cool voice, “how often have I recommended you not to discuss me or my affairs?” “Don’t know, I’m sure,” blustered Bulstrode, his hands still in his pockets. Both of them had realised the boy’s presence. As Bulstrode really loved him, he hated to be cowed before Lewis. The boy was looking downwards, his eyes on the ground; the dog nestled close to him. Both Skelton and Bulstrode remained silent for a moment or two. “You know,” said Skelton after a pause, “I am not a man to threaten.”