“Gone round to the sale, sir.”
“He got my message?” Mr. Bultiwell asked anxiously.
“I told him that he was on no account to buy, sir,” the cashier assented. “He was somewhat disappointed. There is a probability of a rise in hides, and most of the pits down at the tannery are empty.”
Mr. Bultiwell groaned under his breath. His eyes met the eyes of his old employé.
“You know why we can’t buy—at the sales, Jenkins,” he muttered.
The man sighed as he turned away.
“I know, sir.”
Then there was a little stir in the place. The two men left off dusting; the clerks in the counting-house raised their heads hopefully. Jacob Pratt arrived and was ushered into the presence of the head of the firm. It was a trying moment for Mr. Bultiwell, but he did his best. He wished to be patronising, kindly and gracious. He succeeded in being cringing.
“Glad to see you, Pratt. Glad to see you,” he said. “Try that easy-chair. A cigar, eh? No? Quite right! Don’t smoke much myself till after lunch. Seen Pedlar this morning?”