'Don't be violent, Johnny,' said Morris. 'It can't do any good now.'
'Shut your mouth,' said John, 'your time's come to listen.'
He strode into the dining-room, fell into the easy-chair, and taking off
one of his burst walking-shoes, nursed for a while his foot like one in
agony. 'I'm lame for life,' he said. 'What is there for dinner?'
'Nothing, Johnny,' said Morris.
'Nothing? What do you mean by that?' enquired the Great Vance. 'Don't
set up your chat to me!'
'I mean simply nothing,' said his brother. 'I have nothing to eat, and
nothing to buy it with. I've only had a cup of tea and a sandwich all
this day myself.'
'Only a sandwich?' sneered Vance. 'I suppose YOU'RE going to complain
next. But you had better take care: I've had all I mean to take; and
I can tell you what it is, I mean to dine and to dine well. Take your
signets and sell them.'
'I can't today,' objected Morris; 'it's Sunday.'
'I tell you I'm going to dine!' cried the younger brother.
'But if it's not possible, Johnny?' pleaded the other.
'You nincompoop!' cried Vance. 'Ain't we householders? Don't they know
us at that hotel where Uncle Parker used to come.
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