“John ain’t here, and ain’t like; but it’s all as one.”
“Yes, yes; I suppose it is. I know you two hunt in couples.”
“I don’t know what you mean about hunting, Mr. Sowerby. You gents ’as all the hunting, and we poor folk ’as all the work. I hope you’re going to make up this trifle of money we’re out of so long.”
“It’s about that I’ve called. I don’t know what you call long, Tozer; but the last bill was only dated in February.”
“It’s overdue; ain’t it?”
“Oh, yes; it’s overdue. There’s no doubt about that.”
“Well; when a bit of paper is come round, the next thing is to take it up. Them’s my ideas. And to tell you the truth, Mr. Sowerby, we don’t think as ’ow you’ve been treating us just on the square lately. In that matter of Lord Lufton’s you was down on us uncommon.”
“You know I couldn’t help myself.”
“Well; and we can’t help ourselves now. That’s where it is, Mr. Sowerby. Lord love you; we know what’s what, we do. And so, the fact is we’re uncommon low as to the ready just at present, and we must have them few hundred pounds. We must have them at once, or we must sell up that clerical gent. I’m dashed if it ain’t as hard to get money from a parson as it is to take a bone from a dog. ’E’s ’ad ’is account, no doubt, and why don’t ’e pay?”
Mr. Sowerby had called with the intention of explaining that he was about to proceed to Barchester on the following day with the express view of “making arrangements” about this bill; and had he seen John Tozer, John would have been compelled to accord to him some little extension of time. Both Tom and John knew this; and, therefore, John—the soft-hearted one—kept out of the way. There was no danger that Tom would be weak; and, after some half-hour of parley, he was again left by Mr. Sowerby, without having evinced any symptom of weakness.