“Are you there? That you, Mr. Dorrell?... There’s a man here ... a man ... a gentleman to see you, name Swib ... Swob! So he said, sir.... Travels for rum, by what I can make out——”
“No! no!” cried Schwab; but Timothy glared him into silence.
“Said you wouldn’t know him, sir, but you’re a customer of his firm.... No, sir, not rum.... Can’t say it, sir.... Very well, sir (glancing at the card): S C H L A G I N T W.... You’ve got it, sir.... He didn’t say, sir.... Very well, sir.”
“Mr. Dorrell wants to know what you’ve come for.”
“Vill you be so kind as permit me to speak to him myself?”
“No; your trotter might run away.... Yes, sir, one minute.... Now, out with it, Mr. Swob; Mr. Dorrell’s busy.”
“Zen tell him I come from Düsseldorf on behalf of my firma to pay zeir respects and gompliments to zeir valued gustomer and to zay zat ve shall be alvays most pleased to subbly anyzink vatefer zat Mr. Dorrell vants in quickest possible tempo egzept our Number Six Photographic Sensitizer vich require fortnight notice——”
“Arf a mo!... Yes, sir, but there’s such a lot of it I can’t get hold of it all.... No, sir, not walk; the gentleman’s rather lame, sir; came in a pony cart.... Very well, sir.”
“Mr. Dorrell says he’ll be here in a few minutes if you’ll wait.”
“Vy certainly. I can get no train for two hour. I vait in ze house?”