“I’ll sit down, if you don’t mind,” gasped Tommy, depositing himself upon this superannuated seat.
“By all means,” said “Cobbler” Horn cordially; “make yourself quite at home.”
“Thank you,” said Tommy, drawing from his pocket a red and yellow handkerchief, with which he vigorously mopped his brow.
“Cobbler” Horn waited calmly for his perturbed visitor to become composed; and Tommy sat for some minutes, staring helplessly at “Cobbler” Horn, and still rubbing his forehead. What had become of the astute plan of operations which the little man had laid down?
“You have surely something on your mind, friend?” said “Cobbler” Horn, in an enquiring tone.
“Yes, I have,” said Tommy, somewhat relieved; “it’s been there for some time.”
“Well, what is it? Can I help you in any way?”
“Oh, no; I don’t want help.”
His utterly incapacitated demeanour belied him; but he was speaking of financial help.
“I’ve been thinking of the past, Mr. Horn,” he managed to say, making a faint effort to direct the conversation according to his original design.