Both Harry and St. George roared.
“Why bring him in, of course—a 'pusson' with horns on him will be worth seeing.”
A shabby, wizened-faced man; bent-in-the-back, gimlet-eyed, wearing a musty brown coat, soiled black stock, unspeakable linen, and skin-tight trousers held to his rusty shoes by wide straps—showing not only the knuckles of his knees but the streaked thinness of his upper shanks—(Cruikshank could have drawn him to the life)—sidled into the room, mopping his head with a red cotton handkerchief which he took from his hat.
“My name is GADgem, gentleman—Mr. John GADgem of GADgem & Combes.
“I am looking for Mr. Harry Rutter, whom I am informed—I would not say POSitively—but I am inFORMED is stopping with you, Mr. Temple. You forget me, Mr. Temple, but I do not forget you, sir. That little foreclosure matter of Bucks vs. Temple—you remember when—”
“Sit down,” said St. George curtly, laying down his knife and fork. “Todd, hand Mr. Gadgem a chair.”
The gimlet-eyed man—and it was very active—waved his hand deprecatingly.
“No, I don't think that is necessary. I can stand. I preFER to stand. I am acCUStomed to stand—I have been standing outside this gentleman's father's door now, off and on, for some weeks, and—”
“Will you tell me what you want?” interrupted Harry, curtly. References to Moorlands invariably roused his ire.
“I am coming to that, sir, slowly, but surely. Now that I have found somebody that will listen to me—that is, if you are Mr. Harry Rutter—” The deferential air with which he said this was admirable.