“Not for the world,” returned Frere. “And now, what is it?”
“You’ve heard of ‘Blunt’s Magazine’?”
“Yes; I’ve seen it in several places lately.”
“No doubt; it’s a most admirably conducted publication, and one which is certain to become a great favourite with the public. Now I happen to be acquainted with one of the gentlemen who edit it, and shall be happy to give you a note of introduction to him. But you must promise me to be most careful never to reveal his name.”
“Certainly,” rejoined Frere, “if you wish it. But may I venture to ask what it would signify if all London knew it?”
His companion turned upon him a look of indignant surprise; but perceiving that he made the inquiry in honest simplicity of heart, his face assumed an expression of contemptuous pity as he replied, in such a tone of voice as one would use to a little child who had inquired why it might not set light to a barrel of gunpowder, “My dear sir, you do not know—you cannot conceive the consequences. Such a thing would be utterly impossible.”
He then wrote a few lines, which he handed to Frere, saying, “You will find him at home till eleven.”
“And this mysterious name,” observed Frere, glancing at the address, “is!—eh! nonsense!—Thomas Bracy, Esq. Why, he is an intimate friend of my own! That’s famous. Oh! I’ll have some fun with him. I’m sure I’m extremely obliged to you; good morning.” So saying Frere seized his hat, shouldered his umbrella, and hurried off, overjoyed at his discovery.
The mendacious tiger, of whom we have already made honourable mention, answered Frere’s inquiry as to whether his master was at home with a most decided and unequivocal negative, adding the gratuitous information that, “he had gone down to dine with his uncle at Hampstead the previous day and was not expected home till four o’clock that afternoon.”
“Well, that’s a nuisance,” returned Frere. “I tell you what, boy, I’ll step in and write your master a note.”