"Bit of luck I went to Billingsgate yesterday," he thought, as he jumped off the bus. "When I come into the five hundred I'll go down and find the chap who did me a good turn and give him a day out."
He sauntered into the office three-quarters of an hour late, and began to whistle a ribald tune as he took off his coat.
Somebody called out to him in a stage whisper. George took no notice, but swore at his hat when it dropped off the hook.
"Early," said the voice again. "Early!"
"Well, what the devil do you want?" said George, in a loud voice.
"S—sh!" cried the voice again, and George looked round to see a group of solemn-looking faces.
"Hallo!" he cried, looking from one to another, "what's the trouble?"
"S—sh!" cried Busby, lifting his hand. "Mr. Fairbrother's dead."
"What?" cried George, aghast. "Well, I'm hanged!" he said, looking round at the group. "If that isn't just my luck!"