“Certainly not, not too friendly in public,” Benjamin smiled his blandest, “not for at least six months. But any communication sent me by post will be sure to find me, unless it is intercepted by some unscrupulous person. For six months, Mr. Crookenden, I bid you adieu.”
The merchant sniggered again, and Benjamin walked out of the room.
Then Crookenden rang his bell. To the clerk who answered it, he said:
“You saw that man go out of my office, Mr. Smithers?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If ever he comes again to see me, tell him I’m engaged, or not in. I won’t see him—he’s a bad stamp of man, a most ungrateful man, a man I should be sorry to have any dealings with, a man who is likely to get into serious trouble before he is done, a man whom I advise all my young men to steer clear of, one of the most unsatisfactory men it has been my misfortune to meet.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s all, Mr. Smithers,” said the head of the firm. “I like my young men to be kept from questionable associates; I like them to have the benefit of my experience. I shall do my best to preserve them from the evil influence of such persons as the man I have referred to. That will do. You may go, Mr. Smithers.”
Meanwhile, Benjamin Tresco was striding down the street in the direction of his shop; his speed accelerated by a wicked feeling of triumph, and his face beaming with an acute appreciation of the ridiculous scene in which he had played so prominent a part.
“Hi-yi!” he exclaimed exultingly, as he burst into the little room at the back of his shop, where the Prospector was waiting for him, “the man with whips of money would outwit Benjamin, and the man with the money-bags was forced to shell out. Bill, my most esteemed pal, the rich man would rob the poor, but that poor man was Benjamin, your redoubtable friend Benjamin Tresco, and the man who was dripping with gold got, metaphorically speaking, biffed on the boko. Observe, my esteemed and trusty pal, observe the proceeds of my cunning.”