“Why don’t you speak?” cried Blunt, so roughly that the man held out his hands in a gesture evidently intended to mean deprecation. It was as if he meant to say, “Don’t be angry with me; it is not my fault.”
“Well, I see you’re upset, my man,” cried the manager, softening his manner. “Perhaps you had better ease your mind. Speak out. Now then, what’s the matter? Have you lost the money I gave you?”
“No, no, no,” cried Wing, shaking his head violently. “Velly solly—velly solly,” he murmured.
“Very sorry for what?” cried Blunt, catching the man’s arm and looking at him sternly.
Wing, who seemed weak in the extreme, shivered as he shrank from the manager’s eyes, and turned appealingly to Stan as if begging him to intercede.
“The poor fellow doesn’t seem to know what he is saying,” said Stan quietly, “and he’s frightened of you.”
“Humph!” replied Blunt. “I thought I spoke gently enough to him.—Here, Wing, don’t look at me in that scared way. I told you that I was not going to blame you. Speak out. What is it? You have something else to say?”
The man nodded.
“Bad news?”
Wing nodded again sharply.