“Oh, very well,” said Cradock, tossing off his brandy–and–water to bring things to a point. It was a good thing for him that he got it, poor fellow, for he was sadly wet and weary.
“Lor, now, to see that!” cried Clinkers, opening his eyes; “Iʼm blowed if you mustnʼt be a Hoxford gent.”
“To be sure, so I am,” replied Cradock, laughing; “but I should not have thought that you would have known—I mean, I am surprised that you, at this distance, should know anything of Oxford men.”
“Tell you about that presently. Come over again the fire, sir. Up with your heel–tap, and have another.”
“No, thank you, Mr. Clinkers. You are very kind; but I shall not take one drop more.”
“Then you ainʼt been there very long, thatʼs certain. Now you have come about this place, I know; though itʼs a queer one for a Hoxford gent. ‘Gent under a cloud,’ thinks I, the moment I claps eyes on you. Ah, I knows the aristocraxy, sir. Now, what might be your qualifications?”
“None whatever, except such knowledge as springs from a good education.”
“Whew!” whistled Mr. Clinkers, and that sound was worth fifty sentences.
“Then you conclude,” said Cradock, not so greatly downcast, for he had got this speech by heart now, “that I am not fitted for the post offered in your advertisement?”
“Knows what they Hoxford gents is,” continued Clinkers, reflectively; “come across a lot of them once, when I was gay and rattling. They ran into my tax–cart, coming home from Ascot, about a mile this side of Brentford. Famous good company over a glass, when they drops their aristocraxy; they runs up a tick all over town, and leaves a Skye dog to pay for it; comes home about four in the morning, and donʼt know the latch from the scraper. Always pays in the end, though; nearly always pays in the end—so a Hoxford tradesman told me—and interest ten per cent. Differs in that from the medicals; the fast medicals never do pay, sir.”