Isn't it aggravating how completely words fail you when you want most of all to be profuse in your gratitude? Dick felt an absolute dummy as the bookmaker forced the banknotes into his fingers and hustled him downstairs. This was the man whom, on his journey from King's Cross, he had practically called a liar and a thief! This was the man whose methods of business he had denounced with withering scorn—yet here he stood, clutching a fistful of notes from Smithies' safe, a party to one of those very transactions which he had so emphatically condemned in the train!
"No, no, I can't take this money," he cried, making a last fight against the temptation that was weakening him. "Do have it back, there's a good fellow!"
"Look here, youngster, stop rotting," fiercely replied Mr. Smithies. "I'm a bit of a boxer myself, let me tell you, and, old as I am, I'll set about you and give you worse than you gave Juddy Stockgill if you throw that wretched packet o' money in my teeth again. Are we pals or aren't we? Didn't we shake hands, like two Britons, in the train? And what good's a pal if he won't get his hand down when his pard's in a deuce of a mess? But it ain't a favour in any case—it's a commercial transaction. I've got a mortgage on your honour, so to speak, and that's as safe as the Bank of England!"
Again exhorting Dick to rush straight down to the printer's with the cash, Smithies withdrew smartly into his office and shut the door. Dick heard the key turning in the lock and the scraping of a chair as the bookmaker resumed his seat. He knocked hard and obstinately, pleading for admission.
"Not in!" was the equally stubborn response. "Come another day, sonny, and tell me how old Mawdster takes the swipe you're going to give him!"
Out in the street, Dick looked at the notes he was tightly holding, and placed them in his safest pocket. That was an elementary precaution for a boy who had lost so much loose cash before. Then he turned mechanically in the direction of the printing-office, struggling at every step with his severely unyielding conscience, which was all against his acceptance of the favour, though his heart would fain have acquiesced in it.
To be done with this load of debt which pressed so heavily on his mind—to be free to sleep dreamlessly again, to face the morrow with a head held high! The passport to such happiness was on his person—he had only to sink his perverse pride, and he could be done for ever with the manager of the Moston Cleartype Press!
A waverer's mind can be made up for him, yea or nay, by the accident of chance. Thus was Dick's indetermination brought to an end on this January afternoon. Stepping off the pavement irresolutely, he bumped into the somewhat insignificant person of Mr. Mawdster himself, and almost sent him sprawling into the gutter.
"Clumsy fool, look where you're going!" snapped the printer. Then, noticing who had accidentally buffeted him, he turned ironically polite, even to the point of raising his hat.
"Ah, bon soir, Mr. Forge, delighted to meet you, sir! I fancy there is a little matter of business which awaits settlement between us. Is an agreement possible before matters go too far?"