(laughing). Good old Bob!
BOB (after lighting a cigarette). I want to talk to you about something.
GERALD. Well, of course.
BOB (after a pause). You've heard of Marcus, my partner?
GERALD (with the idea of putting himself and BOB more at their ease). Good old Marcus and Farringdon! It's the most perfect name for a firm. They sound so exactly as though they could sell you anything from a share to a shaving-brush. Marcus and Farringdon's pure badger, two shillings--gilt-edged badger half-a-crown.
BOB (fiercely). I suppose everything is just a pleasant joke to you.
GERALD (utterly surprised). Bob! Bob, old boy, what's the matter? (Putting his hand on BOB'S shoulder) I say, Bob, I haven't hurt you, have I?
BOB (hopelessly). Oh, Jerry, I believe I'm in the devil of a hole.
GERALD. You haven't called me "Jerry" since we were at school.
BOB. You got me out of holes then--damn you! and you were my younger brother. Oh, Jerry, get me out of this one.
GERALD. But, of course. (Firmly, as if a little nervous of a scene from BOB) My dear Bob, you're as right as anything. You've got nothing on earth to worry about. At the worst it's only a question of money, and we can always put that right somehow.
BOB. I'm not sure that it is only a question of money.
GERALD (frightened). What do you mean? (Turning away with a laugh) You're talking nonsense.
BOB. Gerald, Marcus is a wrong un. (Fiercely) An out-and-out wrong un.
GERALD. The only time I saw him he looked like it.
BOB. God knows what he's let me in for.
GERALD. You mean money?
BOB. More than that, perhaps.
GERALD. You mean you're just going bankrupt?
BOB. No. (After a pause) Prosecution.
GERALD. Well, let them prosecute. That ends Marcus. You're well rid of him.
BOB (miserably). Perhaps it isn't only Marcus.
GERALD (sharply, after this has sunk in). What can they prosecute you for?
BOB (speaking rapidly). What the devil did they ever send me to the City for? I didn't want to go. I was never any good at figures. I loathe the whole thing. What the devil did they want to send me there for--and shove me on to a wrong un like Marcus? That's his life, messing about with money in the City. How can I stand out against a man like that? I never wanted to go into it at all.
GERALD (holding out his cigarette-case). Have another cigarette? (They each light one, and GERALD sits down in the chair opposite to him.) Let's look at it calmly. You've done nothing dishonourable, I know that. That's obvious.
BOB. You see, Jerry, I'm so hopeless at that sort of business. Naturally I got in the way of leaving things to Marcus. But that's all. (Resentfully) Of course, that's all.
GERALD. Good. Well, then, you're making much too much fuss about it. My dear boy, innocent people don't get put into prison nowadays. You've been reading detective stories. "The Stain on the Bath Mat," or "The Crimson Sponge." Good Lord! I shall be coming to _you_ next and saying that _I'm_ going to be put in prison for selling secret documents to a foreign country. These things don't happen; they don't really, old boy.
BOB (cheered, but not convinced). I don't know; it looks devilish bad, what I can make of it.
GERALD. Well, let's see what I can make of it.
BOB (trying not to show his eagerness). I was wondering if you would. Come up on Monday and we'll have a go at it together. Marcus has gone, of course. Probably halfway to South America by now. (Bitterly) Or wherever you go to.
GERALD. Right-o! At least, I can't come on Monday, of course, but we'll have a go at it on Thursday.
BOB. Why can't you come on Monday?
GERALD. Well, the Surrey match.
BOB (bitterly). I suppose as long as you beat Surrey, it doesn't matter if I go to prison.
GERALD (annoyed). Oh, shut up about going to prison! There's not the slightest chance of your going to prison. You know perfectly well, if there were, that I'd walk on my hands and knees to London to-night to try and stop it. As it is, I have promised to play for the county; it's a particularly important match, and I don't think it's fair to let them down. Anyway, if I did, the whole family would want to know why, and I don't suppose you want to tell them that yet.
BOB (mumbling). You could say the Foreign Office had rung you up.
GERALD (earnestly). Really, Bob old boy, I'm sure you're making too much of it. Dammit! you've done nothing wrong; what is there to worry about? And if it's only a question of money, we'll manage it on our heads, somehow. I'll come up directly the match is over. It may be Tuesday night, with luck.
BOB (grumbling). If the weather's like this, it's bound to last three days.
GERALD. Then at the worst, I'll come first train Thursday morning. That I promise. Anyway, why don't you consult Wentworth? He's a good chap and he knows all about the law. He could probably help you much more than I could.
BOB. I suppose you think I _like_ talking about it to everybody.
GERALD (getting up and touching BOB gently on the shoulder as he goes past him). Poor old Bob! But you're as right as anything. I'll come up by the first train on Thursday and we'll--good Lord!
BOB. What's the matter now?
GERALD. I am a damned fool! Why, of course, we arranged--
BOB (sneeringly). And now you can't come on Thursday, I suppose.
GERALD. Why, you see, I arranged--
BOB. You _must_ keep your promise to the county, but you needn't keep your promise to me.
GERALD. Yes, but the trouble is I promised Pamela--oh, well, that will have to go; she'll understand. All right, Bob, that holds. Directly the match is over I come. And for the Lord's sake, keep smiling till then.
BOB. It's all very well for _you_. ... I wish you could have--well, anyhow, I suppose Thursday's better than nothing. You'll see just how it is then. (Getting up) You won't say anything about it to the others?
GERALD. Of course not. What about Pamela? Does she know anything?
BOB. She knows that I'm worried about something, but of course she doesn't know what I've told you.
GERALD. All right, then I won't tell her anything. At least, I'll just say that bananas remain firm at 127, and that I've got to go and see my broker about it. (Smiling) Something like that.
(BOB goes towards the garden, while GERALD stops to wait for PAMELA. At the door he turns round.)
BOB (awkwardly). Er--thanks. [Exit.]
(GERALD throws him a nod, as much as to say, "That's all right." He stands looking after him, gives a little sigh, laughs and says to himself, "Poor old Bob!" He is half-sitting on, half-leaning against the table, thinking it all over, when PAMELA comes