'Sure it is. I guess dad's try at cornering
wheat was about the most profitable thing that ever happened--to the
other fellows. It seems like they got busy and clubbed fifty-seven
varieties of Hades out of your old grand-pop. He's got to give up a lot
of his expensive habits, and one of them is sending money to us. That's
how it is.'
'And on top of that, mind you,' moaned Lord Runnymede, 'I lose my
little veto. It's bitter--bitter.'
Clarence lit a cigarette and drew at it thoughtfully. 'I don't see how
we're going to manage on twelve thousand quid a year,' he said.
His mother crisply revised his pronouns.
'We aren't,' she said. 'You've got to get out and hustle.'
Clarence looked at her blankly.
'Me?'
'You.'
'Work?'
'Work.'
Clarence drew a deep breath.
'Work? Well, of course, mind you, fellows _do_ work,' he went on,
thoughtfully. 'I was lunching with a man at the Bachelor's only
yesterday who swore he knew a fellow who had met a man whose cousin
worked. But I don't see what I could do, don't you know.'
His father raised himself on the sofa.
'Haven't I given you the education of an English gentleman?'
'That's the difficulty,' said Clarence.
'Can't you do _anything_?' asked his mother.
'Well, I can play footer. By Jove, I'll sign on as a pro. I'll take a
new name.
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