“None, sir; my father is a poor man, and quite unable.” I could scarcely speak—like the driver of the one-horse chaise, I could neither advance nor recede.
“The father,” said Mr. Timmis, “is only a poor shoe-maker—a good fellow tho'—an excellent fit!”
“You mean to say,” cried Mr. Wallis, “it were bootless to seek security of the shoe-maker.”
A laugh ensued; and, notwithstanding my agitated feelings, I could not forbear being tickled by Mr. Wallis's humour, and joining in the merriment.
This sally gave a most favourable turn to the discussion. “Come,” said Mr. Wallis, “I'll stand two hundred and fifty—and you, Timmis, must go the other.”
“No; d___ me, he may bolt with the cash-box, and let me in, perhaps,” exclaimed Mr. Timmis. I burst into tears; I felt, that from my long and faithful services, I deserved a better opinion—although I had no right to expect so great a favour.
Rude as he was, he felt some compunction at having wounded my feelings; and swore a round oath that he was only joking, and I was a fool. “Did I think, for a moment, that Wally should get the start of him; no—I was an honest chap, and he'd put his fist to double the amount to serve me;” and then bade me “sit to the books,” and make all square before I cut my stick: and thus happily concluded this most momentous change in my circumstances.
CHAPTER XV.—An Old Acquaintance.
“Only three holidays left, and still this plaguey glass says 'very wet;'—I can't bear it—I can't—and I won't.”