“Do you know, Jemima, I have it on my mind to send for Tommy at once, and ask him what he really meant.”
“Send for him—to come in here?”
“Yes; why not?”
“Well, you must do as you like, I suppose.”
A moment’s reflection had convinced the good lady that she had really no sound reason to advance against the proposal her brother had made; and she knew that, in any case, he would do as he thought fit.
Accordingly a messenger was despatched for Tommy Dudgeon with all speed; and the little huckster turned over to his brother, without compunction, an important customer whom he happened to be serving at the time, and hurried away to the bedside of his honoured friend.
The servant who, in obedience to orders received, showed Tommy up at once to “Cobbler” Horn’s room, handed in at the same time a telegram which had just arrived from Mr. Burton, saying that he and Mrs. Burton might be expected about three o’clock in the afternoon. “Cobbler” Horn placed the pink paper on the little table by his bedside, and turned to Tommy, who stood just within the doorway, nervously twisting his hat between his hands.
“Come in, Tommy, come in!” said “the Golden Shoemaker,” encouragingly, “you see I am almost well.”
Tommy advanced into the room; but being arrested by the sight of Miss Jemima, who stood at the bed-foot, he stopped short half-way between the bed and the door, and honoured that formidable lady with a trembling bow. Miss Jemima’s mood this morning was complacency itself, and she acknowledged the obeisance of the little huckster with a not ungracious nod. Greatly encouraged, Tommy moved a pace or two nearer to the bed.
“I’m deeply thankful, Mr. Horn,” he said, “to see you looking so well.”