The man made no answer, but moved where, near the window, and chatting with the banker of the town (as the banker tried on a pair of beaver gloves), sat still—after due apology for sitting—Mr. Roger Morton.
The alderman lowered his spectacles as he glanced grimly at the lean apparition that shaded the spruce banker, and said,—
“Do you want me, friend?”
“Yes, sir, if you please;” and the man took off his shabby hat, and bowed low.
“Well, speak out. No begging petition, I hope?”
“No, sir! Your nephews—”
The banker turned round, and in his turn eyed the newcomer. The linendraper started back.
“Nephews!” he repeated, with a bewildered look. “What does the man mean? Wait a bit.”
“Oh, I’ve done!” said the banker, smiling. “I am glad to find we agree so well upon this question: I knew we should. Our member will never suit us if he goes on in this way. Trade must take care of itself. Good day to You!”
“Nephews!” repeated Mr. Morton, rising, and beckoning to the man to follow him into the back parlour, where Mrs. Morton sat casting up the washing bills.