“Yes,” said Sam, “I went last night. But I mentioned that to establish my identity. My object in calling upon you is to ask you to lend me five pounds.”
Sir William thought of his secretary, who should have saved him this. Thinking of his secretary, he thought of Derby Day and the probable intentions of a man who chooses that day to ask for a loan. “My dear sir!” he said.
“Quite,” agreed Sam. “Life would be unbearable to you if every constituent who came to London tried to borrow money off you. But I am Branstone. I run the Branstone Press and the Branstone Classics. I published the ‘Social Evil’ pamphlet and sent you a copy which, I regret to say, you did not acknowledge.” Sir William thought again of his secretary, and unkindly. “This,” said Sam, “is merely to indicate that I am a man of substance.”
Sir William Gatenby wore side-whiskers. He was an old man and there was little left of him besides pomposity and a determination to hold his seat. He looked, what at this moment he felt, some one in a farce. He was quite sure that Sam was some one in a farce. They were both in a farce, and of course five-pound notes fly in farces like gnats in August. It did not seem to him that there was anything to do but to produce a five-pound note.
“Thank you,” said Sam, and sat at a desk. “I will give you my cheque for this.”
It staggered Sir William. He nearly warned Sam of the danger of issuing a cheque which was not likely to be honoured, but refrained in time. “Then,” he said, “there was really no need for you to come to me at all?”
“Only,” said Sam, “that I wanted you to remember me.”
“I think I shall do that,” said Sir William.
“Thank you,” said Sam calmly. “I wanted to know you because I intend to go into politics.”
“The Cause,” said Sir William solemnly, “demands his best from every earnest worker.”