Christopher went home raging internally, for hitherto he had never seen so gross a case of injustice.
One of his humble patients followed him, and said, “I wish I had known, sir; you shouldn't have come here to be insulted. Why, no gentleman can ever get justice against a servant girl when HE is sitting. It is notorious, and that makes these hussies so bold. I've seen that jade here with the same story twice afore.”
Staines reached home more discomposed than he could have himself believed. The reason was that barefaced injustice in a court of justice shook his whole faith in man. He opened the street door with his latch-key, and found two men standing in the passage. He inquired what they wanted.
“Well, sir,” said one of them, civilly enough, “we only want our due.”
“For what?”
“For goods delivered at this house, sir. Balance of account.” And he handed him a butcher's bill, L88, 11s. 5 1/2d.
“You must be mistaken; we run no bills here. We pay ready money for everything.”
“Well, sir,” said the butcher, “there have been payments; but the balance has always been gaining; and we have been put off so often, we determined to see the master. Show you the books, sir, and welcome.”
“This instant, if you please.” He took the butcher's address, who then retired, and the other tradesman, a grocer, told him a similar tale; balance, sixty pounds odd.
He went to the butcher's, sick at heart, inspected the books, and saw that, right or wrong, they were incontrovertible; that debt had been gaining slowly, but surely, almost from the time he confided the accounts to his wife. She had kept faith with him about five weeks, no more.