“Eh?  Yes, I see you’ve had a glass or two, and it makes you witty.  But wait a bit I was devilish near thrashing you a few minutes ago; but I sha’n’t do it, say what you like.  I don’t like vulgar rows.”

“No more do I,” remarked Hilliard; “and I haven’t fought since I was a boy.  But for your own satisfaction, I can tell you it’s a wise resolve not to interfere with me.  The temptation to rid the world of one such man as you might prove too strong.”

There was a force of meaning in these words, quietly as they were uttered, which impressed the listener.

“You’ll come to a bad end, my lad.”

“Hardly.  It’s unlikely that I shall ever be rich.”

“Oh! you’re one of that sort, are you?  I’ve come across Socialistic fellows.  But look here.  I’m talking civilly, and I say again it’s for your advantage.  I had a respect for your father, and I liked your brother—­I’m sorry to hear he’s dead.”

“Please keep your sorrow to yourself.”

“All right, all right!  I understand you’re a draughtsman at Kenn and Bodditch’s?”

“I daresay you are capable of understanding that.”

Hilliard planted his elbow in the window of the carriage and propped his cheek on his hand.

“Yes; and a few other things,” rejoined the well-dressed man.  “How to make money, for instance.—­Well, haven’t you any insult ready?”

The other looked out at a row of flaring chimneys, which the train was rushing past:  he kept silence.

“Go down to Liverpool,” pursued Dengate, “and make inquiries about me.  You’ll find I have as good a reputation as any man living.”

He laboured this point.  It was evident that he seriously desired to establish his probity and importance in the young man’s eyes.  Nor did anything in his look or speech conflict with such claims.  He had hard, but not disagreeable features, and gave proof of an easy temper.

“Paying one’s debts,” said Hilliard, “is fatal to reputation.”

“You use words you don’t understand.  There’s no such thing as a debt, except what’s recognised by the laws.”

“I shouldn’t wonder if you think of going into Parliament.  You are just the man to make laws.”

“Well, who knows?  What I want you to understand is, that if your father were alive at this moment, I shouldn’t admit that he had claim upon me for one penny.”

“It was because I understood it already that I called you a scoundrel.”

“Now be careful, my lad,” exclaimed Dengate, as again he winced under the epithet.  “My temper may get the better of me, and I should be sorry for it.  I got into this carriage with you (of course I had a first-class ticket) because I wanted to form an opinion of your character.  I’ve been told you drink, and I see that you do, and I’m sorry for it.  You’ll be losing your place before long, and you’ll go down.  Now look here; you’ve called me foul names, and you’ve done your best to rile me.  Now I’m going to make you ashamed of yourself.”