“You mean Mrs Podge, I suppose?” suggested Sharp; “she who kicked her heels so vigorously at Langrye after the accident.”
“Ah! Mrs Podge—yes. Does she persist in her ridiculous claim for damages?”
“She does, having been urged to do so by some meddling friend; for I’m quite sure that she would never have thought of doing so herself, seeing that she received no damage at all beyond a fright. I’m going to pay her a visit to-day in reference to that very thing.”
“That’s all right; then I won’t detain you longer. Good-bye, Mr Sharp,” said Tipps, putting on his hat and quitting the office.
Not long afterwards, Mr Sharp knocked at the door of a small house in one of the suburbs of Clatterby, and was ushered into the presence of Mrs Podge. That amiable lady was seated by the fire knitting a stocking.
“Good afternoon, Mrs Podge,” said Mr Sharp, bowing and speaking in his blandest tones. “I hope I see you quite well?”
Mrs Podge, charmed with the stranger’s urbanity, wished him good afternoon, admitted that she was quite well, and begged him to be seated.
“Thank you, Mrs Podge,” said Mr Sharp, complying. “I have taken the liberty of calling in regard to a small matter of business—but pardon me,” he added, rising and shutting the door, “I inadvertently left the door open, which is quite inexcusable in me, considering your delicate state of health. I trust that—”
“My delicate state of health!” exclaimed Mrs Podge, who was as fat as a prize pig, and rather piqued herself on her good looks and vigour of body.
“Yes,” continued Mr Sharp, in a commiserating tone; “I have understood, that since the accident on the railway your—”