“There he is now. Oh, Larkin! Larkin!” murmured Miss Bibby in the tone Sir Isaac [p151] Newton must have used when his dog Diamond did him the irreparable mischief.
Yes, there was Larkin, riding gaily off down the path to the gate, an empty basket swung on one arm. He had just received another commission from Anna—a large bottle of patent medicine and a complexion remedy, and as he had lately extended the field of his operation by acting as a sort of travelling agent (on commission) for a chemist in an adjoining village, it brought the piano and the grocery emporium a little closer.
Hugh gave a peremptory whistle and the boy looked over his shoulder, then responded to the beckon by bringing his horse sharply round and cantering briskly across to the waratahs.
“Something else, Miss Bibby, ma’am?” he said, whipping out his order book.
“What do you mean by not delivering the note I gave you from the wagonette on Thursday?” said Hugh angrily.
“I did deliver it!” said Larkin in much indignation, “which I can say honest, sir; I never neglected a message yet. And that’s why our business is what it is.”
“Whom did you give it to?” said Miss Bibby. “Was it to one of the children?”
“Not much, ma’am,” said Larkin, in open scorn. “I don’t do business that ways, knowin’ well what kids—begging yer pardon, children [p152] are. I did hand it to the oldest of ’em, certainly, but I took the precaution, Miss Bibby, ma’am, to stay at the door till I seen her hand it to you. You was standin’ by the fire and I seen it acshally in yer hand.”
“But that was no letter,” said Miss Bibby, a faint recollection stealing over her, “it was one of your trade cards.”
“It was on one of those I wrote,” said Hugh, “having no other paper. I remember apologizing for using it.”