“Yes, yes, yes—quite right—you did quite right,” observed Grahame, hastily. “Let me see you with the deed as early as you can in the morning. Good night, Chewkle.”
Mr. Grahame rang for Whelks as he spoke, and was promptly answered by the immediate appearance of his man, who had applied his ear to the keyhole with most persevering zeal, in the hope to unravel the mystery of Chewkle’s audiences with his proud and haughty master, but he had caught nothing—but the ear-ache, which subsequently took him for a walk up and down his bedroom all night, to the doctor’s in the morning, afterwards to Covent Garden Market for poppy heads, and subsequently it treated itself to scorching flannel, blistering fermentations, and applications of hot and cold vinegar, until Whelks was nearly pickled.
On the disappearance of his servant and Chewkle, Mr. Grahame returned to his guests with a smiling face and perfect serenity of manner, although every one in the room noticed his haggard aspect and the ghastly whiteness of his face. As he made no complaint, they were too well bred to make any remark, and, exerting himself to please, his pallid anxiousness passed without further observation.
In the meanwhile, Chewkle followed Whelks down stairs. The first twinges of pain were introducing themselves to Whelks’ notice. A sensation as if he was being repeatedly stabbed in the ear with a bradawl was the first intimation he had of something unpleasant coming on. He had a dim notion at the same time that Chewkle was addressing him as “guv’nor,” but the lunges with the figurative brad-awl were so brisk when they once commenced, that he was plunged into the wildest confusion, being for the moment uncertain whether he was descending to the mat at the foot of the stairs upon his highly-floured locks, or upon his tight patent pumps.
Chewkle, on reaching the hall, however, made him understand that he was anxious to get change for a ten-pound note, and wished to know where he could achieve it; Whelks, who was desirous of holding a little conversation with him, in hopes to worm something out of him, explanatory of the strange and anomalous influence he evidently possessed with the head of the household, offered to accommodate him, having, he said he believed, as much gold in his purse. He produced it, and displayed to the greedy eyes of Chewkle some eighteen or twenty sovereigns.
As Whelks counted out the gold, a storm of stabs set in on the inner portion of his ear, so that he grew embarrassed and handed a number of sovereigns to Chewkle, saying, as his eyes overran with water—
“See if they are right—ow! ow! ow! I’ve the dreadfullest pangs.”
Chewkle counted eleven sovereigns, and said the amount was quite right. He handed the note to Whelks, and thrust the sovereigns into his pocket.
“I was goin’ to say to you, sir,” commenced Whelks, “that I should like to have a ’arf-’our’s chat with you, if—ow! ow! ow! I never. Wheugh! oh, my hear.”
“Bad thing,” said Chewkle, anxious to get off with the extra sovereign; “I should ’ave it hout.”