"I say, you're a nice chap!" he grumbled, cutting himself short with a staccato that was not in the music.
"What have I done?" asked Raphael.
"Done? You've got me into a nice mess. The guvnor—the new guvnor, the old guvnor, it seems—called the other day to fix things with me and Pinchas. He asked me if I was satisfied to go on at the same screw. I said he might make it two pound ten. 'What, more than double?' says he. 'No, only nine shillings extra,' says I, 'and for that I'll throw in some foreign telegrams the late editor never cared for.' And then it came out that he only knew of a sovereign, and fancied I was trying it on."
"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Raphael, in deep scarlet distress.
"You must have been paying a guinea out of your own pocket!" said little
Sampson sharply.
Raphael's confusion increased. "I—I—didn't want it myself," he faltered. "You see, it was paid me just for form, and you really did the work. Which reminds me I have a cheque of yours now," he ended boldly. "That'll make it right for the coming month, anyhow."
He hunted out Goldsmith's final cheque, and tendered it sheepishly.
"Oh no, I can't take it now," said little Sampson. He folded his arms, and drew his cloak around him like a toga. No August sun ever divested little Sampson of his cloak.
"Has Goldsmith agreed to your terms, then?" inquired Raphael timidly.
"Oh no, not he. But—"