“And nothing’ll come of that,” said Batterby again into his glass.
But the little man never minded ingratitude or folly or human grief; he enjoyed doing things.
“I bet you I’m back here in twenty minutes, and that Jerry is seeing you in half an hour,” he said.
“Jerry’s not there this time of night,” said Batterby, still determined upon woe.
“Jerry’s always there,” said the little man, and he disappeared.
He was back as he had said, and in less than twenty minutes. Batterby had got no farther than his fifth; but in the extravagance of penury he ordered another round for them all.
“You’re to see Jerry now, at once,” he said. “Up you go.”
Batterby would have discussed, but the other pushed him good-naturedly forward; and it was as his benefactor had said. Within half an hour of the first suggestion Batterby was sitting comfortably in a chair which Sir Jeremiah Walton had courteously pushed toward him with his own hands. Sir Jeremiah was a great editor. He knew the House of Commons above and Fleet Street below. He had wanted Batterby for years. Batterby had the reputation for finding out things, and the right things, better and quicker than any newspaper man in the “Street.”
“Well now, Mr. Batterby, this is what one may call sudden like,” said Sir Jeremiah genially. “Ef I had known as you were free, why, man”—then he gave a cunning glance at the simple face before him, and said, “Ye’ve not been trying on any games, ’ave yer?”
“I was told you wanted me, sir,” said Batterby. “I don’t know what you mean by games.” He was still sore.