'Stout-and-mild is my drink, Hood,' remarked Cheeseman, suggestively. 'It has body, and I need the support.'
They each had a pint, served in the native pewter. When Cheeseman had taken a deep draught he leaned forward across the table.
'Hood, I don't forget it; never you believe that I forget it, however appearances may be against me?'
'Forget what?—give me the mustard, as soon as you can spare it; ha, ha!'
'That ten-pound note!'
Hood dropped his knife and fork.
'What on earth's up? You look just like you did when I clapped you o' the shoulder. Your nerves are out of order, old friend.'
'Why, so they are. I know now what you mean; I couldn't for the life of me think what you were talking about.'
'Don't think I forget it,' pursued the other, after a mouthful.
'It's twelve years last Easter since you lent me that ten-pound note, and it's been on my conscience ever since. But I shall repay it; never you fear but I'll repay it. Did I mention a fire-escape that any man can wear round his waist? Hush! wait a month or two. Let me make a note of your address whilst I think of it. This pudding's hot, but it's a fault on the right side, and time 'll mend it. You wouldn't mind, I daresay, being my agent for Dunfield—for the fire-escape, you know? I'll communicate with you, don't fear.'