“No more he shall! What, rob his children for fear of a stuffy old man’s black looks? But I’ll see him into the bank myself, and see that he brings it out, too! I’ll answer for that!”
“And you’re in the right, ma’am, seeing it’s yours. Money’s not that easy got we’re to be robbed of it. Now those notes with CO. on them they’re money anyways, I suppose? There’s nothing can alter them, I’m thinking. I’ve two of them at home, that my lad——”
“Oh, Mrs. Gittins!” And superior information raised its hands in horror. “You understand nothing at all. Don’t you know they’re the worst of all? If those shutters—go—up at that bank,” dramatically, “they’ll not be worth the paper they’re printed on! You take my advice and go this very minute and buy something at Purslow’s or Bowdler’s, and get them changed. And you’ll thank me for that word, Mrs. Gittins, as long as you live.”
Upset was not the word for Mrs. Gittins, who had thought herself outside the fray. “Well, they be thieves and liars!” she gasped. “And Dean’s too, ma’am? You don’t mean to say——”
“I wouldn’t answer even for them,” darkly. “If you ask me, I’d let some one else have ’em, Mrs. Gittins. Thank the Lord, I’ve none of them on my mind!”
And on that Mrs. Gittins waddled away, and two minutes later stood in Purslow’s shop, inwardly “all of a twitter,” but outwardly looking as if butter would not melt in her mouth. But, alas! Purslow’s was out of change that day; and so, strange to say, was Bowdler’s. Most unlucky—great scarcity of silver—Government’s fault—should they book it? But Mrs. Gittins, although she was all of a twitter, as she explained afterwards, was not so innocent as that, and got away without making her purchase.
Still, that was the way talk went, up and down Bride Hill and in Shocklatch, at front door and back door alike. And the men were not ill-content to be bidden. Some had passed a sleepless night, and had already made up their minds not to pass another. Others had had a nudge or a jog of the elbow from a knowing friend, and had been made as wise by a raised eyebrow as by an hour’s sermon. Worse still, some had got hold of a story first set afloat at the Gullet—the Gullet was the ancient low-browed tavern in the passage by the Market Place, where punch flowed of a night, and the tradesmen of the town and some of their betters were in the habit of supping, as their fathers and grandfathers had supped before them. Arthur’s departure, quickly followed by Clement’s—after dark and in a post-chaise, mark you!—had not passed without comment; and a wiseacre had been found to explain it. At first he had confined himself to nods and winks, but being cornered and at the same time uplifted by liquor—for though the curious could taste saloop at the Gullet, Heathcote’s ale was more to the taste of the habitués, when they did not run to punch—he has whispered a word, which had speedily passed round the circle and not been slow to go beyond it.
“Gone! Of course they’re gone!” was the knowing one’s verdict. “And you’ll see the old man will be gone, too, before morning, and the strong-box with him! Open? No, they’ll not open? Never again, ten o’clock or no ten o’clock. Well, if you must have it, I got it from Wolley not an hour back. And he ought to know. Wasn’t he hand in glove with them? Director of the—oh, the Railroad Shares? Waste paper! Never were worth more, my lad. If you put your money into that, it’s on its way to London by this time!”
“And Boulogne to-morrow,” said another, going one better, as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe. “I’m seventy-five down by them, and that’s the worst and the best for me! Those that are in deeper, I’m sorry for them, but they’ve only themselves to thank! It’s been plain this month past what was going to happen.”
One or two were tempted to ask why he hadn’t drawn out his seventy-five pounds, if he had been so sure. But they refrained, having a wambling, a sort of sick feeling in the pit of their stomachs. He was a rude, overbearing fellow, and there was no knowing what he might not bring out by way of retort.