Roland took up the ruler, and essayed to balance it on the edge of his nose. “Who was it?” asked he.
“I am not sure who it was, though I know I have seen the man, somewhere. I think he wanted payment of a bill, sir.”
“Nothing more likely,” rejoined Roland, with characteristic indifference. “I hope his head won’t ache till he gets it! I am cleared out for some time to come. I’d like to know who the fellow was, though, Jenkins, that I might punish him for his impudence. How dared he come here?”
“I asked him to leave his name, sir, and he said Mr. Roland Yorke knew his name quite well enough, without having it left for him.”
“As brassy as that, was he! I wish to goodness it was the fashion to have a cistern in your house-roofs!” emphatically added Roland.
“A what, sir?” cried Jenkins, lifting his eyes from his writing.
“A water-cistern, with a tap, worked by a string, at pleasure. You could give it a pull, you know, when such customers as those came, and they’d find themselves deluged. That would cool their insolence, if anything would. I’d get up a company for it, and take out a patent, if I only had the ready money.”
Jenkins made no reply. He was applying himself diligently to his work, perhaps hoping that Mr. Roland Yorke might take the hint, and do the same. Roland actually did take it; at any rate, he dipped his pen in the ink, and wrote, at the very least, five or six words; then he looked up.
“Jenkins,” began he again, “do you know much about Port Natal?”
“I don’t know anything about it, sir; except that there is such a place.”