“Twenty-five shillin’s and saxpence,” said the master of the shop, “Will I be makin’ oot the teeckets?”
“What’s the price of a third single to London?” asked Ralph. “I must raise enough for that.”
“Ye canna do it, sir, not with these, it’s juist beyon’ ony man’s contrivin’. Why I’m thinkin’ the teecket to London will be a matter of twa punds.”
He appealed to his assistant.
“It’s preceesely forty-two shillin’ and saxpence,” said the young man, regarding the actor with some interest.
“There’s still the portmanteau,” said Ralph.
It was an old one of the rector’s, solid and good of its kind.
“I’ll gie ye a couple o’ shillin’s for it,” said the pawnbroker. “But ye’ll no be gettin’ to London, sir, upon twenty-seven and saxpence.”
“It must be done,” said Ralph, with a determined look which took the Scotchman’s fancy. “Make out those tickets, and I’ll be with you again in five minutes.”
“The laddie’s weel-bred,” said the old man to himself. “He’ll win his way depend on it, there’s grit in him. Yon’s none of your false French polishin’; it’s sound, good breedin’ and grit.”