“You don’t say so?” said Mr Jabez uneasily.
“Yes, I do,” said Mr Grimstone, taking the box out of the reader’s hand and helping himself to a pinch; “I said it quite plain.”
“It’s a bad job.”
“Have you just found that out?” snarled the overseer. “Pretty pair of fools we’ve been. Look here, send that boy away.”
“No, no; no, no. Sit still, Grace. Eat some more figs, boy. I’ll call Mrs Jennings when you’ve eaten them. There, go on, Grim. Antony Grace isn’t a chatterer.”
“Just as you like,” said Grimstone. “Well, if he doesn’t get married to that gal right off, and bank her money, the game’s up, and your 500 pounds and my 750 pounds are gone to the deuce.”
“Is it 750 pounds, Grimstone?”
“Yes, curse him! he got round me with all sorts of promises.”
“Of bonus, Grim, eh?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” growled the overseer. “That bill-discounter chap, Brandysheim, or Brandyman or something’s, cornering him. He was at the office to-day, and there was a regular shine.”