Mr. Grahame descended to his library. In one corner of it, upon the edge of a chair, under which his hat was placed, sat, with his knees close together, and his toes poised on the floor, a strange looking personage, a sort of hybrid between a fast banker’s clerk, and an undertaker.
It was Mr. Chewkle.
Mr. Chewkle was an agent; a commission agent. He undertook any description of business, no matter what. He sold coals and coffee, he introduced distracted tradesmen to usurious bill-discounters. He offered two shillings and sixpence in the pound to indignant creditors for unhappy insolvents. He would supply you with a good article in tea, at two and eight. He raised money on mortgage and post obit, having a friend who did that sort of thing for spendthrifts who needed it.
He laid out money on fancy horses for fast individuals, with imaginary betting-men, though the horses he backed for them were rarely landed winners at the post. He knew all the good investments in mines, and would obtain shares for anybody, at a comparatively low price, though some day they “might” be at fabulous premiums. He—but he would undertake anything whatever, clean or dirty, if paid his commission, and “ask no questions,” when the remunerator was liberal.
He rose up as Mr. Grahame entered, and made him a bow.
“Good morning, Chewkle,” said Mr. Grahame, loftily; “well, what success?”
“We’ve got our man, safe, sir,” he replied, with a feeble grin.
“Where?”
“Spunging-house, sir.”
“And the family?”