It was evening before he returned. Mr. and Mrs. Plaskwith were both in the shop as he entered—in fact, they had been employed in talking him over.
“I can’t abide him!” cried Mrs. Plaskwith. “If you choose to take him for good, I sha’n’t have an easy moment. I’m sure the ‘prentice that cut his master’s throat at Chatham, last week, was just like him.”
“Pshaw! Mrs. P.,” said the bookseller, taking a huge pinch of snuff, as usual, from his waistcoat pocket. “I myself was reserved when I was young; all reflective people are. I may observe, by the by, that it was the case with Napoleon Buonaparte: still, however, I must own he is a disagreeable youth, though he attends to his business.”
“And how fond of money he is!” remarked Mrs. Plaskwith, “he won’t buy himself a new pair of shoes!—quite disgraceful! And did you see what a look he gave Plimmins, when he joked about his indifference to his sole? Plimmins always does say such good things!”
“He is shabby, certainly,” said the bookseller; “but the value of a book does not always depend on the binding.”
“I hope he is honest!” observed Mrs. Plaskwith;—and here Philip entered.
“Hum,” said Mr. Plaskwith; “you have had a long day’s work: but I suppose it will take a week to finish?”
“I am to go again to-morrow morning, sir: two days more will conclude the task.”
“There’s a letter for you,” cried Mrs. Plaskwith; “you owes me for it.”
“A letter!” It was not his mother’s hand—it was a strange writing—he gasped for breath as he broke the seal. It was the letter of the physician.