Mr. Bloxford scratched his hairless head and looked despairingly at Derrick. From the first he had expected that there were grave reasons for the young man's presence in the company; a man of Derrick's breeding does not join a travelling circus for the mere fun of it.
"Some trouble, I suppose, eh? Got to clear out? I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Look here, can't something be done—can't it be squared? if it's money—well, say the amount"—he threw out his chest again—"and it shall be forthcoming. I'll own up that I've taken a fancy to you, that I'd plank down a biggish sum to keep you with me. No?"—for Derrick had shaken his head.
"Thank you with all my heart," said Derrick. "I must clear out without any fuss. I've got a bundle packed, and I'm going straight off directly I leave you."
Mr. Bloxford's countenance fell, and he whistled.
"Bad as that, is it? Whatever have you done? Well, well, I won't ask any questions. I've met some of your sort before; there's always something shady—though it goes against the grain with me to think that you've done anything low down and mean. But I see there's no use talking."
He thrust his hand in his breast-pocket, in which, with his love of ostentation, he always carried a bundle of notes and some loose gold, and, as he held out his hand to Derrick, there was something crisp in it.
Derrick shook the hand and pressed back the note; he could not speak for a minute; then he said, rather huskily:
"It's all right, Mr. Bloxford. You paid me on Friday night, and I've plenty to go on with."
With that he went out, heavy-hearted, and Mr. Bloxford stood at the door, his extraordinary face drawn into a thousand wrinkles and his lips shaping strange oaths.