“Your father's own words, eighteen years ago, when he drew all the money he had out of the agent's hands, and paid off the debt on this little spot here. 'Nelly,' said he, 'I can look out of the window now, and not be afraid of seeing a man coming ap the road to ask for his interest.'”
“It's the very first thing I 'll try to do, is to pay off that debt, mother. Who knows but I may be able before the year is over! But I am glad you did n't take it from Sir Arthur.”
“You're as proud as your father, Tony,” said she, with her eyes full of tears; “take care that you're as good as he was too.”
CHAPTER XXXVI. A CORNER IN DOWNING STREET
When Tony Butler found himself inside of the swinging glass-door at Downing Street, and in presence of the august Mr. Willis, the porter, it seemed as if all the interval since he had last stood in the same place had been a dream. The head-porter looked up from his “Times,” and with a severity that showed he had neither forgotten nor forgiven, said, “Messengers' room—first pair—corridor—third door on the left.” There was an unmistakable dignity in the manner of the speaker which served to show Tony not merely that his former offence remained unpardoned, but that his entrance into public life had not awed or impressed in any way the stern official.
Tony passed on, mounted the stairs, and sauntered along a very ill-kept corridor, not fully certain whether it was the third, fourth, or fifth door he was in search of, or on what hand. After about half an hour passed in the hope of seeing one to direct him, he made bold to knock gently at a door. To his repeated summons no answer was returned, and he tried another, when a shrill voice cried, “Come in.” He entered, and saw a slight, sickly-looking youth, very elaborately dressed, seated at a table, writing. The room was a large one, very dirty, ill-furnished, and disorderly.
“Well, what is it?” asked the young gentleman, without lifting his head or his eyes from the desk.
“Could you tell me,” said Tony, courteously, “where I ought to go? I 'm Butler, an extra messenger, and I have been summoned to attend and report here this morning.”
“All right; we want you,” said the other, still writing; “wait an instant.” So saying, he wrote on for several minutes at a rapid pace, muttering the words as his pen traced them; at last he finished, and, descending from his high seat, passed across the room, opened a door, which led into another room, and called out,—