Mr Quill, whose countenance was sad, looked as though he would willingly have urged the considerations referred to over again, and backed them up with a few more; but Mr Auberly’s tone was peremptory, so he only opened the door, and bowed the great man out.
“You can go, Hooper,” said Mr Quill, retiring slowly to the inner office, “I will lock up. Send the porter here.”
This was a quite unnecessary permission. Quill, being a good-natured, easy-going man, never found fault with Ned Hooper, and Ned being a presumptuous young fellow, though good-humoured enough, never waited for Mr Quill’s permission to go. He was already in the act of putting on the white hat; and, two seconds afterwards, was in the street wending his way homeward.
There was a tavern named the “Angel” at the corner of one of the streets off Tooley Street, which Edward Hooper had to pass every evening on his way home. Ned, we grieve to say, was fond of his beer; he always found it difficult to pass a tavern. Yet, curiously enough, he never found any difficulty in passing this tavern; probably because he always went in and slaked his thirst before passing it.
“Good evening, Mr Hooper,” said the landlord, who was busy behind his counter serving a motley and disreputable crew.
Hooper nodded in reply, and said good evening to Mrs Butler, who attended to the customers at another part of the counter.
“Good evenin’, sir. W’at’ll you ’ave to-night, sir?”
“Pot o’ the same, Mrs B,” replied Ned.
This was the invariable question and reply, for Ned was a man of regularity and method in everything that affected his personal comforts. Had he brought one-tenth of this regularity and method to bear on his business conduct, he would have been a better and a happier man.
The foaming pot was handed, and Ned conversed with Mrs Butler while he enjoyed it, and commenced his evening, which usually ended in semi-intoxication.