“I do really think I shall go mad,” he said to Mr. Gibbs, on the day when that gentleman had tortured him up to the last pitch necessary for making Dibble his tool.
“Then I must save you,” said Mr. Gibbs, at length.
“Oh, Mr. Gibbs, dont ’e trifle with my feelings,” said Thomas.
“Not I, my friend; I intended to have assisted you when I advised you to buy those shares, and I am sorry they have not turned out so well as we had a right to expect,” said Mr. Gibbs, tapping his tight little boots with a cane, and looking up at the lamp under which Dibble had accosted him in the street.
“No, no—the best intentions sir; but dear, dear, bad be the best this time.”
“Come to my chambers in an hour, Dibble, and I will see if I can put the thing right.”
“Yes, sir,” said Dibble, touching his cap; the two parted, and in an hour Dibble was sitting on the edge of a chair in Mr. Gibbs’ private room.
“Business is business,” said Mr. Gibbs; “I will take the shares from you, and here is a cheque for five hundred pounds.”
“God bless ’e, God bless ’e!” began Dibble, in an ecstasy of delight.
“Stop a little; there is a small condition,” said Mr. Gibbs, placing his hand upon a purse which he laid upon the table.