When he spoke at length his speech, though curt, was not so rigorously
emotionless as usual.
"Don't you think," he said, "that you have carried this tomfoolery of
yours far enough?"
Babbacombe raised one eyebrow. "Meaning?" he questioned.
West enlightened him with most unusual vigour.
"Meaning that tomfoolery of this sort never pays. I know. I've done it
myself in my time. If I were you, I should pull up and try some less
expensive hobby than that of mending broken men. The pieces are always
chipped and never stick, and the chances are that you'll cut your
fingers trying to make 'em. No, sir, I won't be your agent! Find a man
you can trust, and let me go to the devil!"
The outburst was so unexpected and so forcible that at first Babbacombe
stared at the man in amazement. Then, with that spontaneous kindness of
heart that made him what he was, he grabbed and held his opportunity.
"My dear fellow," he said, not pausing for a choice of words, "you are
talking infernal rot, and I won't listen to you. Do you seriously
suppose I should be such a tenfold ass as to offer the management of my
estate to a man I couldn't trust?"
"What reason have you for trusting me?" West thrust back. "Unless you
think that a dozen years in prison have deprived me of my ancient skill.
Would you choose a man who has been a drunkard for your butler? No! Then
don't choose a swindler and an ex-convict for your bailiff.
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