“Send some one along for them,” he said, “some one that knows how to keep his mouth shut. I’ve clean forgot all that business of the King of Pingalap’s: the breech-loading cannon I promised him from Hudson’s, and those damned guinea-fowls, and that cylinder for his musical box!”
“Here’s one of your own men,” said Mears. “You know young Bence?”
“Good God, that child!” cried the old man. “Didn’t I tell you I wouldn’t have him?”
“Pity you hadn’t spoken before,” said the broker, with surprise. “I only signed his contract yesterday.”
Old Bee regarded me sourly.
“I don’t understand the joke,” he said.
“Oh, come, come. He’s twenty-two if he’s a day,” said Mears, adding four years to my age; “and as to being young, I dare say he’ll get over it.”
“What’s he done, that you’re so keen to get him off?” said Old Bee, still eyeing me with strong disfavour. “However, as you have made it your business to push him down my throat, I suppose I’ve got to bolt him.”
“He’d sue you like a shot if you didn’t,” said Mears. “With that contract in his pocket he’s regularly got you in his power.”
This view of the situation made even Old Bee smile, and caused Mears to laugh outright. For me it was scarcely so entertaining; never in my life had I felt so small or insignificant, though I plucked up courage when the great man handed me his list and bade the broker count me out sixty sovereigns. This showed that in some small measure I must have won his good opinion, a conviction that was still further strengthened by his departure, when, in the excitement and flurry of the moment, he even shook me by the hand.