The new-comer started.
“Don’t say there’s owt wrong wi’ Dixons’!” he panted.
“Yes, yes!” cried Gemp. “My deeds! my writings! I saw parson and Thickens busy together. They were tackling Hallam when I was took badly. Hallam’s a rogue! I warned you all—a rogue! a rogue! See how he has been going on!”
“Neighbour,” groaned the new-comer, “they’ve got all I have in the world up yonder in the bank.”
“Oh, but it can’t be true,” said the tailor, with a struggle to catch at a straw of hope.
“Ay, but it is true,” said the last comer, whose face was ghastly; “and I’m a ruined man.”
“Nay, nay, wait a bit. P’r’aps Hallam has only been ill.”
“Ill? It was he, then, I’ll swear, I saw to-night, walk by me in a cloak and cap. He were going off. Neighbours, are we to sit still and bear a thing like this?”
“I’ll hev my writings! I’ll hev my writings!” cried Gemp hoarsely, as he clawed at the air with his trembling hands.
“Is owt wrong?” said a fresh voice, and another of the Castor tradesmen sauntered in, pipe in mouth.