"Now, then!" cried Tom, at last; "are you going to let me have that money?" "No," said the squire, coolly enough. "I wouldn't let you have it now for your bullying. I'm a hound and a cur, am I, my lad?" "Yes, you are a despicable hound and a miserable cur, and if the old man had known--" "Let the old man rest," said the squire, with a lurid look. "I say, if the old man had known how you were going to spend his money, sotting from morning to night--" "He'd have left it to you to spend on the loose, eh?" "Loose? Why, you are ten times as loose as I am; but you are so proud of your good name that you sneak about in the dark to do your dissipation. I am manly and straightforward in mine." "Yes, you're a beauty," said the squire mockingly. "Which of those girls are you going to marry--Leo Salis or Dally Watlock?" "You mind your own affairs, and leave me to manage mine!" said Tom Candlish fiercely. "But I should like to know," said the squire, "because then I could arrange about the paper and furniture for the rooms." "Do you want to quarrel, Luke?" "Quarrel?" chuckled the squire; "not I. Trying to be brotherly and to make things pleasant. If it is to be Leo, of course we must have greys and sage greens and terra cottas. If it is to be Dally Watlock, we must go in for red and yellow and purple. How delightful to have the sexton's granddaughter for a sister! I say, Tom, how happy we shall be!" Tom Candlish turned upon his brother furiously, as if about to strike; and the squire, though apparently laughing over his banter, and about to play, kept upon his guard. But no blow was struck. Tom uttered a low sound, like the muttering growl of an angry dog, and smoked quickly, giving the butt of his cue a thump down upon the floor from time to time as he walked. "I shan't mind your marrying, Tom; and there's plenty of room for you to bring a wife to. I shan't marry, so your boy will get the title--and the coin." "Coin?" cried Tom savagely; "there'll be none left. Do you think I don't know how you are spending it?" "Never mind how I spend it, my lad. I only spend what is my own; and if I had spent all, I shouldn't come begging to you." "Lucky for you," cried Tom Candlish tauntingly. "Look here, Luke, how many years does it take a man to drink himself to death?" "Don't know," said the squire, wincing. "Well, you're hard at work, and I shall watch the experiment with some curiosity. I've a good chance." "Healthier man than you, Tom; and it'll take me longer to kill myself than it will take you. I shall be a hale man long after you've broken your neck hunting." "Look here!" cried Tom savagely, "once more: do you want to quarrel?" "Not I," said the squire; "and I don't want to fight. Cain might kill Abel over again with an unlucky blow." "'Pon my soul, Luke, if I could feel sure that Cain would be hung for it, I shouldn't mind playing Abel."