“Take your wage for the coming month, and begone.”
“It is usual, sir,” objects Critchett, “to give more than a month’s anticipatory honorarium on parting after such long association.”
This is the drop too much which makes the cup of Bertram’s patience overflow.
“You impudent villain,” he exclaims. “The only payment you deserve is the treadmill. Do not stretch my patience too far.”
Critchett perceives that his long docile victim is roused, and may become dangerous.
He retreats meekly.
“Would you wish to examine my portmanteau, sir?”
“No,” says Bertram. “Begone.”
Critchett bows very low.
“I have only put your theories into practice, sir,” he says, when he has reached a safe distance; “and you will be sorry if you send me away. You won’t find another Critchett very easily.”