“Do you mean pretending to go there, and not going?” said Mr Carker.
“Yes, Sir, that’s wagging, Sir,” returned the quondam Grinder, much affected. “I was chivied through the streets, Sir, when I went there, and pounded when I got there. So I wagged, and hid myself, and that began it.”
“And you mean to tell me,” said Mr Carker, taking him by the throat again, holding him out at arm’s-length, and surveying him in silence for some moments, “that you want a place, do you?”
“I should be thankful to be tried, Sir,” returned Toodle Junior, faintly.
Mr Carker the Manager pushed him backward into a corner—the boy submitting quietly, hardly venturing to breathe, and never once removing his eyes from his face—and rang the bell.
“Tell Mr Gills to come here.”
Mr Perch was too deferential to express surprise or recognition of the figure in the corner: and Uncle Sol appeared immediately.
“Mr Gills!” said Carker, with a smile, “sit down. How do you do? You continue to enjoy your health, I hope?”
“Thank you, Sir,” returned Uncle Sol, taking out his pocket-book, and handing over some notes as he spoke. “Nothing ails me in body but old age. Twenty-five, Sir.”
“You are as punctual and exact, Mr Gills,” replied the smiling Manager, taking a paper from one of his many drawers, and making an endorsement on it, while Uncle Sol looked over him, “as one of your own chronometers. Quite right.”