“No, Mr. Dorrell ain’t in the house. He’ll come here. We always interview rum customers at the gate.”
“No, no, no; not rum, my friend; and Mr. Dorrell is ze gustomer. He buy of us; at least, he order; Mr. Greatorex pay.”
“Well, it don’t matter to you, I s’pose, so long as you get your money? Mr. Greatorex’s money is good enough for me, anyway. Paid for that topping cigar of yours, didn’t it?”
“I have not ze honour to know Mr. Greatorex; but I have here a price list of cigars, and if——”
“Here’s Mr. Dorrell.”
“Vere? I see him not.”
“Well, he’s big enough, though he ain’t as broad as he’s long: that gentleman in the blue clothes comin’ down the path.”
“Zat Mr. Dorrell! Vy—he is a boy! Himmel!”
“Rum, ain’t it? S’pose you never was a boy, Mr. Swob.”
A tall loose-limbed young fellow had come into the drive from a side path, and was walking with great strides towards the gate. He was bareheaded; his black hair tumbled over a brow unusually high and broad. No other feature was noticeable except his eyes, which were large, deep blue in colour, and shot with a strange glow. He was dressed in a loose suit of what appeared to be blue alpaca, which was plentifully bestained.