There were still the
old doctor, who came, cheering him up with kind words, bringing him books
that he thought he could read--as though a man _could_ read books, under
such circumstances--and now Tony West--good old West!
West strode in, his five-feet-three of manhood looking as though it were
ready to throw the jailer's six-feet-one out of the window upon request,
and seized Nigel's hand, wringing it furiously.
"Good old Nigel! Gad! but it's fine to see you. And what fool put you in
this idiotic predicament? Wring his damned neck, I would. How are you,
old sport?"
Under such light badinage did West try to conceal his real feeling but
there was a tremour of the lips that spoke so banteringly.
Good old West! A friend in a thousand.
"Nice sort of place for the Squire of the Manor to be disporting himself,
isn't it?" returned Merriton, fighting his hardest to keep his composure
and reply in the same light tone. "I--I--damn it, Tony, you don't believe
it, do you?"
West went red to the rim of his collar. He choked with the vehemence of
his response.
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