Colonel Pembroke, notwithstanding his success at Mrs. York’s masquerade in his character of a spendthrift, could not by his utmost wit and address satisfy or silence his impertinent tailor. Mr. Close absolutely refused to give further credit without valuable consideration; and the colonel was compelled to pass his bond for the whole sum which was claimed, which was fifty pounds more than was strictly due, in order to compound with the tailor for the want of ready money. When the bond was fairly signed, sealed, and delivered, Mr. Close produced the poor weaver’s bill.
“Colonel Pembroke,” said he, “I have a trifling bill here—I am really ashamed to speak to you about such a trifle—but as we are settling all accounts—and as this White, the weaver, is so wretchedly poor, that he or some of his family are with me every day of my life dunning me to get me to speak about their little demand—”
“Who is this White?” said Mr. Pembroke.
“You recollect the elegant waistcoat pattern of which you afterwards bought up the whole piece, lest it should become common and vulgar?—this White was the weaver from whom we got it.”
“Bless me! why that’s two years ago: I thought that fellow was paid long ago!”
“No, indeed, I wish he had been; for he has been the torment of my life this many a month—I never saw people so eager about their money.”
“But why do you employ such miserable, greedy creatures? What can you expect but to be dunned every hour of your life?”
“Very true, indeed, colonel; it is what I always, on that principle, avoid as far as possibly I can: but I can’t blame myself in this particular instance; for this White, at the time I employed him first, was a very decent man, and in a very good way, for one of his sort: but I suppose he has taken to drink, for he is worth not a farthing now.”
“What business has a fellow of his sort to drink? He should leave that for his betters,” said Colonel Pembroke, laughing. “Drinking’s too great a pleasure for a weaver. The drunken rascal’s money is safer in my hands, tell him, than in his own.”
The tailor’s conscience twinged him a little at this instant, for he had spoken entirely at random, not having the slightest grounds for his insinuation that this poor weaver had ruined himself by drunkenness.