“What say you? Can you do anything for him?” urged the squire.
“Why—ah—really, you know—should be most happy to oblige you, or to serve Mr.—Mr.——”
“Bristow,” said the squire.
“Bristow—thank you—but you see—ah—young Musgrave’s berth was filled up a week ago, and I’m sorry that I’ve nothing else just now at all likely to suit the requirements of your—ah—protégé. I’ll take another spoonful of clear soup, if you please.”
Tom’s face was a study all this time. “I’m in for it now,” he said to himself. “The banker will never speak to me again.”
“Ah, well,” said the squire, “I’ll see McKenna, the electioneering agent, to-morrow. I dare say he’ll know of something that will suit our young friend.”
“Pardon me, Mr. Culpepper,” said Tom quietly, “but I’m afraid there’s a slight mistake somewhere. I am not aware that I ever expressed myself as being in want of a situation, either in Mr. Cope’s bank, or elsewhere. My business, such as it is, lies in London. I have only come down to Duxley to see a few old friends.”
“Why, bless my heart,” said the squire, “I thought you told me yesterday that you were in want of something to do!”
“A misunderstanding, I assure you, sir. Many thanks to you all the same.”
“And what the deuce is your business, if I may make bold to ask?” said the squire, testily.