“Finders is keepers, sir,” said Patsy, with a grin.
“Why, good heavens—you don’t mean to say——”
“I’ve got his eye in me pocket, sir,” said Patsy in a hoarse whisper. “He’s sint a telegram for another wan, but till it comes he’s tethered to his bed like a horse to a——”
“That’s enough—that’s enough,” said Mr Fanshawe. “Here’s half a crown for you, Patsy, for—carrying my cartridges.”
“Now, if Patsy was in Parliament instead of Boxall,” thought Mr Fanshawe, as he went to his room, “he’d be Prime Minister before Boxall had learned to wash glasses and carry dishes if he was suddenly turned into a page-boy like Patsy. Patsy, if he did nothing else, would be pretty sure to catch the Speaker’s eye. We’ll take Patsy with us, begad, when we levant. Patsy is far, far too valuable an article to be left wasting his fragrance here. With Violet as a wife, and Patsy as a servant, a man ought to go to the top of the apple tree. Decidedly I’m in luck.”
He was in the act of lighting a cigarette when a tap came to the door, followed by little Lord Gawdor’s voice.
“Mr Fanshawe!”
“Hullo!”
“We’re decoratin’ the nursery for Christmas; come and help.”
“Like a rocket!” replied Dicky; “I’ll be there in two minutes, when I’ve finished this cigarette.”