Mr. Polyblock (looks at wrong card). Mr. Stanley—Hubert Stanley—oh, one of the swells that came up with the governor! Show him in.
Enter Mr. Egremont, neatly and cleanly attired in
bush-fashion—Crimean shirt, moleskin trousers, no coat.
Mr. P. (surprised and irritated). Hulloa! who the devil are you? Oh, I see, swell out of luck! Want employment or else, perhaps, I wouldn't mind advancing twenty pound till your remittance came out. Is that the game?
Egremont (haughtily). No, sir; I am perfectly able to pay my way, and trust to be so for the future. We have not met before, but no doubt you will know who I am when I tell you that my name is Cecil Egremont.
Mr. P. Eggermont? Eggermont? We've not met afore, as you say; but, by George, I'll meet you some day! You're the chap as took up my main camp. Then what the devil do you want at my private house, eh? Mind, I won't sell you a pound of beef or mutton either, if you want it ever so bad. I ain't to be had that way.
Egremont (proudly). You're over-hasty in your conclusions, sir. I have no pressing need for butcher's meat. But you are right in surmising that I do want something from you—something of value also.
Mr. P. (much surprised). Good Gad! (Aside—What can he want? Don't want money nor beef; perhaps it's wheat or 'taters. Never knew a free selector yet that didn't want one of 'em.) What is it, man, speak out?
Egremont. The fact is, Mr. Polyblock, your daughter; that is, I have long cherished an admiration——
Mr. P. (wrathfully). Admiration be hanged! You said my daughter—my daughter! God bless my soul and body! You don't mean to say she'd ever say a word to the likes of you?