“That is my name, sir,” was the answer, delivered with a bland smile and a half bow.
“What are you, Mr. Fopperton?”
“A tailor by trade, sir;”—for persons of Mr. Fopperton’s calling never describe themselves briefly as “tailors,” but always as “tailors by trade.”
“A tailor by trade,” repeated Mr. Bulliwell. “And you carry on business——”
“In Regent Street, sir,” replied Mr. Fopperton, glancing towards the bench to notice what effect such a fashionable address had produced upon the Commissioners: but one was dozing, and the other seemed to be looking at nothing—just as horses appear when they are standing idle.
“In Regent Street,” repeated Mr. Bulliwell. “And I believe the Insolvent called upon you, and ordered clothes to a considerable amount?”
“I have supplied him for the last three years,” answered Mr. Fopperton, “and never yet saw the colour of his money.”
“You never yet saw the colour of his money. But he has seen the colour of yours, though?”
“I have discounted bills for him to the amount of a thousand pounds.”
“To the amount of a thousand pounds. Now, on what pretence—or rather, under what circumstances did the Insolvent introduce himself to you?” inquired Mr. Bulliwell.