"Debts of honour," he had termed them, and the
description acted like a red rag to a bull. Sir Philip had lost his temper
completely.
"'Debts of honour' you call 'em, you young jackanapes!" he had raged. "I
call them debts of the dirtiest dishonour you could pick up out of the
gutter!" He swept Tony's indignant remonstrances to one side. "If you call
it honourable to play for money when you haven't got it to pay with if you
lose, a sense of honour's a different thing from what it was in my young
days. Why--why--why--" he spluttered, "it's no better than stealing! You
deserve a damn good hiding, let me tell you, and it's what you'll get one
of these days if you can't keep straight, you young devil!"
The old man had stormed on for a heated half-hour or so, while Tony had
stood by and listened to him, white-faced and furious, his haughty young
head flung up and his teeth clenched to keep back the bitter answers that
fought for utterance. Finally, his hand still shaking with rage, Sir Philip
had written a cheque that would cover his nephew's losses.
"That's the last time I pay your gambling debts," he had said as he flung
down the pen. "You've an allowance of six hundred a year, and if you exceed
that again I'll fire you out of the house neck and crop, and be damned to
you!"
"I'll go now, sir--at once, if you wish!" Tony had returned with cool
insolence.
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