“By Jove!” cried Wickham, “then you’re one of these Finsbury tontine fellows. I hadn’t a guess of that.”
“Ah!” said the other, “do you know that old boy in the carriage is worth a hundred thousand pounds to me? There he was asleep, and nobody there but you! But I spared him, because I’m a Conservative in politics.”
Mr. Wickham, pleased to be in a luggage van, was flitting to and fro like a gentlemanly butterfly.
“By Jingo!” he cried, “here’s something for you! ’M. Finsbury, 16 John Street, Bloomsbury, London.’ M. stands for Michael, you sly dog; you keep two establishments, do you?”
“O, that’s Morris,” responded Michael from the other end of the van, where he had found a comfortable seat upon some sacks. “He’s a little cousin of mine. I like him myself, because he’s afraid of me. He’s one of the ornaments of Bloomsbury, and has a collection of some kind—birds’ eggs or something that’s supposed to be curious. I bet it’s nothing to my clients!”
“What a lark it would be to play billy with the labels!” chuckled Mr. Wickham. “By George, here’s a tack-hammer! We might send all these things skipping about the premises like what’s-his-name!”
At this moment, the guard, surprised by the sound of voices, opened the door of his little cabin.
“You had best step in here, gentlemen,” said he, when he had heard their story.
“Won’t you come, Wickham?” asked Michael.
“Catch me—I want to travel in a van,” replied the youth.