The dusk seemed deepened the next moment by a tall figure obstructing the doorway, at sight of whom Mr. Pink rubbed his hands and smiled and bowed more than once, with evident solicitude to show honor where honor was due, while he said:
"Mr. Christian, sir, how do you do, sir?"
Christian answered with the condescending familiarity of a superior. "Very badly, I can tell you, with these confounded braces that you were to make such a fine job of. See, old fellow, they've burst out again."
"Very sorry, sir. Can you leave them with me?"
"Oh, yes, I'll leave them. What's the news, eh?" said Christian, half seating himself on a high stool, and beating his boot with a hand-whip.
"Well, sir, we look to you to tell us that," said Mr. Pink, with a knowing smile. "You're at headquarters—eh, sir? That was what I said to Mr. Scales the other day. He came up for some straps, Mr. Scales did, and he asked that question in pretty near the same terms that you've done, sir, and I answered him, as I may say, ditto. Not meaning any disrespect to you, sir, but a way of speaking."
"Come, that's gammon, Pink," said Christian. "You know everything. You can tell me if you will, who is the fellow employed to paste up Transome's handbills?"
"What do you say, Mr. Sims?" said Pink, looking at the auctioneer.
"Why, you know and I know well enough. It's Tommy Trounsem—an old, crippling, half-mad fellow. Most people know Tommy. I've employed him myself for charity."
"Where shall I find him?" said Christian.