There's not a day but they come cadging to us, wanting to borrow our tin, or our grub, or something.
There, look at that chap going across there! He's one of 'em.

Regular casual-ward form about him.

He's the meanest, stingiest lout in all Fellsgarth." "Why," exclaimed Fisher minor, looking in alarm towards this prodigy of baseness, "why, that's--that's Fisher, my brother!" The Modern youth's jaw fell with a snap, and his cheeks lost what little colour they had.
"What?
Why didn't you tell me! Look here, you needn't tell him what I said.

It was quite between ourselves, you know.

I must be cutting, I say.