The secretary regarded him with benevolent eyes. “You do not deserve anyzing!” he said.
“I might 'ave tore 'em up.”
“Zey are not yours!”
“They weren't Butteridge's!”
“No need to pay anyzing.”
Bert's being seemed to tighten towards desperate deeds. “Gaw!” he said, clutching his coat, “AIN'T there?”
“Pe galm,” said the secretary. “Listen! You shall haf five hundert poundts. You shall haf it on my promise. I will do that for you, and that is all I can do. Take it from me. Gif me the name of that bank. Write it down. So! I tell you the Prince—is no choke. I do not think he approffed of your appearance last night. No! I can't answer for him. He wanted Pooterage, and you haf spoilt it. The Prince—I do not understand quite, he is in a strange state. It is the excitement of the starting and this great soaring in the air. I cannot account for what he does. But if all goes well I will see to it—you shall haf five hundert poundts. Will that do? Then gif me the plans.”
“Old beggar!” said Bert, as the door clicked. “Gaw!—what an ole beggar!—SHARP!”
He sat down in the folding-chair, and whistled noiselessly for a time.
“Nice 'old swindle for 'im if I tore 'em up! I could 'ave.”