But the lad stood and grinned, first at the Squire and then at Mrs Wilton, rubbing his hands down his sides the while.
“D’yer hear?” whispered the footman, as the groom opened the door. “Come on.”
“Sheeawn’t.”
“Come on. Beer.”
“But he arn’t give me the two shillings yet.”
“Eh? Oh, forgot,” said the Squire.
“Gahn. None o’ your games. Couldn’t ha’ forgetted it so soon.”
“There—Take him away.”
Wilton held out a couple of shillings, and the fellow snatched them, bit both between his big white teeth, stuffed one in each pocket, made Mrs Wilton another bow, and turned to go; but his wardrobe had been sadly neglected, and at the first step one of the shillings trickled down the leg of his trousers, escaped the opening into his ill-laced boot, rattled on the polished oaken floor, and then ran along, after the fashion of coins, to hide itself in the darkest corner of the room. But Barker was too sharp for it, and forgetting entirely the lessons he had learned at school about ordering “himself lowly and reverently to all his betters,” he shouted: “Loo, loo, loo!” pounced upon it like a cat does upon a mouse, picked it up, and thrust it where it could join its fellow, and turned to Mrs Wilton.
“Hole in the pocket,” he said, confidentially, and went off to get the beer.