“And a rum-lookin’ ramshackle turn-out it is,” quoth Timothy, ignoring the piece of pasteboard and eyeing the vehicle disdainfully. “I wonder you ain’t ashamed to come out in a ‘at like that, togged up to the nines, quite a torf, and your pony as looks as if he ain’t had a currycomb on his hide for a month o’ Sundays.”
“Ah, you mistake me all ze time. Ze bony, he is not mine; I hire him to bring me to Midfont House. Here is my carte, my friend. Take it to Mr. Thomas Dorrell, viz gompliments. He do not know my name, so! But he know ze name of ze firma I rebresent, and he vill like to see me, I know zat, because he place large orders, vair large, viz our gompany; he is vat you call a gustomer, you understand.”
Timothy Ball looked doubtfully at the visitor, and at the card he offered to him.
“There’s customers, and rum customers,” he said.
“Rum!” interrupted the stranger. “If Mr. Dorrell like rum, we can subbly any quantity, in cask or bottle, at rock-bottom price.”
Timothy sniggered and rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Rum ain’t the word for it,” he said. “’Tis downright bloomin’ funny, that’s what it is. Well, guv’nor, hold hard a bit; I’ll just ’phone through to Mr. Dorrell and tell him you’re here. ’Ow do you say your name?”
“Schwab! Hildebrand Schwab, rebresentative of ze Schlagintwert Gombany of Düsseldorf.”
“Can’t say all that; telephone won’t stand it. Wait a bit while I try Swob.”
He rang up and put his ear to the receiver.