"Very good, Sir Josiah!"
"And see Mr. Cutler don't go and put his foot on it," said Sir Josiah, "and let me see, one, two, three, four, that's all right! One moment!" Back into the house he dashed, to reappear with more parcels.
"Reg'lar old Santy Claus," muttered Bletsoe, with a kindly smile, "like a blooming great kid he is, going to 'ave a day's outing!"
"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven—seven's right, and eight, that's in my pocket; what's the time, Bletsoe?"
"Gone ten, sir!"
"Bless my soul and I promised to be at Cutler's at ten—all right now, Bletsoe, let her go!"
How he had racked his brain, what shops had he not rummaged, what shopmen and shop maidens had he not pestered. He had sent down cases from the wine merchant, stores from Messrs. Whiteley, hundred weights of pâte de foie gras, Strasbourg pies, chocolates and Heaven knew what besides from Messrs. Fortum and Mason's. That lengthy and evidently fragile parcel he had been so careful about was a beautiful and costly vase. Something of the Ming Period or the Chang Dynasty, he was not very sure what, but it cost a great deal. That soft and pliable looking parcel was a silken kimono of rare and wonderful workmanship. Those square parcels were cigars and cigarettes for Allan and Allan's friends. There he sat, this red faced, jolly old gentleman, with a great cigar in the corner of his mouth and he beamed on the world as his magnificent car whirled him up one street and down another.
And here was Cutler actually ready, standing in his open doorway, Cutler in a new and rather becoming tweed suit, and a soft felt hat, an unfamiliar Cutler, for Sir Josiah had never seen him in anything but a silk hat and a correct black coat in the City.
"Hallo Cutler, here we are, a bit late, mind the parcels! Bletsoe, take Mr. Cutler's suitcase, here we are, my boy, lovely morning, looking forward to a delightful run, picking up Coombe and Jobson at Horley. Get in, get in! Have a cigar, no you prefer a pipe. I don't know that you ain't right!"
And now they were really off and away. How nimbly the big car twisted in and out the traffic, how it dodged cumbersome, road monopolising trams, how it slipped round the unwieldy omnibuses! Then away southward Streatham was passed—here was Croydon with its narrow congested streets, past Purley and Redhill, down the long hill somewhere near the foot of which lies the village of Horley and its well known Inn, where Coombe and Jobson would be waiting.