"Out by the gate there," said the small boy, pointing behind him. "A man--a young man. Asked me to find you."
"All right," cried Comethup, and went leaping and striding toward the gate. There seemed to be no one there at first, until he went out a pace or two into the road; and there, leaning easily with his back against the wall, was a young man smoking a cigarette. "Did you want to see----" began Comethup; and then, as the young man turned quickly, the boy stopped, and looked at him with a puzzled expression for a moment; as the other smiled and threw back his head, Comethup gasped out, "Why--it's Brian!"
Brian nodded, and stepped forward and shook Comethup by the hand. It was the first time they had met since Comethup had left the old place with his aunt; yet there were things about this tall, handsome fellow of eighteen that were the things he had known in the Brian who had been a child. It was the same smile that broke over his face suddenly, like light; the dark eyes, that seemed to see so much farther and so much more than any other eyes; the brown hair, waving back from his forehead, and worn rather long; the slightly swaggering fashion of carrying himself--the fashion which his father had carried to an excess. There were, besides all this, a carelessness of dress and a recklessness of manner that seemed to be a part of his natural growth, too.
"Yes; it's Brian. I thought I might be able to see you. By Jove! you haven't altered a bit, my cousin of the queer name. Of course you're bigger, but you've still got that angelic face and that maiden air of goodness. I'll put you into a poem some day, only no one will believe I've drawn you from life. There, let's stop jesting; I want you to help me. The truth of the matter is, there's been a kick-up between my father and myself; we never did hit it; his ways are not my ways, and he's a blackguard, and not with my sort of blackguardism either." He laughed, and clapped a hand on Comethup's shoulder. "Look here, old boy, I'm not envying you the plums of life you've got, but I want--oh, I have the right, as far as that goes--I want you to help me."
"Why, of course," began Comethup, "if I can----"
"You can do everything. According to my father, you stole my birthright from me, you rascal, although that wasn't your fault. Some of us get the bread in this world, and the others, for all the asking, get the stone. Let's cut all this and come to the point. I'm going to London; it's the only place where a man with brains--and I _am_ a man now, although I am only eighteen, and I know I've got the brains--it's the only place where a man can do anything, or show what stuff is in him. In the country, among these grinning, slow, dead-and-alive yokels, one can't move; one seems to get stuck in their beastly clayey soil, and to take root there and never to move again. London's the place; I saw it once when I was a boy; I've dreamed of it ever since. I know what I can do there; I'll make men recognise me. But I'm a beggar, so far as money is concerned, and I'm heavily in debt. I don't care a hang about the debts; dad'll have to pay them; that was what the row was about. However, it's his own fault, and in any case it doesn't matter now. What I want to know is this: can you let me have enough money to take me to London, and give me a bit over until I find my feet? I know you've got plenty, and I don't know any one else to whom I can turn. I knew you were here, because I saw the captain--that old starched chap--a day or two back, and he told me where you were."