The Argosy — page 333: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

312 The Ghost of ‘‘ Ours.” in the Royal Manx with an extravagant allowance and the worldly knowledge of a schoolboy of ten. “Every regiment has its black sheep, I suppose,” said Loxdale, “and a very sooty one ours was. Despard Vandeleur by name; sounds like the hero of a fashionable novel, doesn’t it? He was big, showy, handsome in his way, with a sort of air about him that imposed on women—and men who didn’t know him; underneath his veneer an utter blackguard. Ormsby naturally took to him, followed him about, quoted him and imitated him to the best of his ability, while Vandeleur alternately patronised and sneered at him covertly. Well! it was no one’s business to interfere. He was old enough to look out for himself, and if he liked Vandeleur and the very shady society that he affected, so much the worse. Yet, as I told Smylie to- night, the thought of what that poor boy might have been saved from, if any of us had made it his business, bothers me often enough now.” ‘‘What didn’t you save him from ?” I asked, for Loxdale had fallen a-meditating. ‘“‘ Grief—utter! The usual thing. A little high play, a little book- making, a little seeing life under Vandeleur’s guidance, and a pot of money gone, and nothing to show for it. His old uncle—did I tell you he was heir to a big property close by: Penderell Court? Old Penderell had brought him up—his uncle paid his debts and set him straight with the world once more, and then ¥: ‘The relapse, of course,” I suggested. ‘‘ Vandeleur took care of that,” sighed Loxdale. “Old Mr. Penderell came up to the barracks one morning, looking like a ghost. A cheque, bearing his signature, but which had mani- festly been tampered with, had been stopped at the London and Yarn- borough Bank. It was paid in by a Frenchman, a friend of Vande- leur’s, who had received it the night before from Ormsby in payment of his losses at écarté. It was the clumsiest of forgeries. No man in his sober senses would have attempted it. £200 had been altered to £2,000, evidently, and the cheque presented at the very time Mr. Penderell, a director, was certain to be at the bank. I never liked the old man. He was sour, Puritanical, unforgiving, and his wrath against Ormsby was something unholy. He came to me first—then sent for Vandeleur and Ormsby. ‘ The latter came in as coolly as possible, nodded to de Barnac—the Frenchman who had come up with old Penderell—and took the affair very easily. It was a mistake from beginning to end. He had never played with de Barnac, never owed or paid him anything. They had met in Vandeleur’s rooms the night before, but that was the be- ginning and end of the acquaintance. I could see that no one but myself believed him for a moment; I did, and do still. “ Then in came Vandeleur, looking so honestly grieved and ashamed that he almost imposed on me for a moment. Old Penderell pro- duced the cheque. Ormsby looked utterly bewildered and stupefied, Eomichbooks.co m