“Well, how goes it?” said Mr Shanklin. “You’ve had a run lately, and no mistake.”
“Yes, I flatter myself we’ve done pretty well. One hundred pounds a day for ten days makes how much, Durfy?”
“A thousand,” said Durfy.
“Humph!” said Mr Shanklin. “Time to think of our Christmas holidays.”
“Wait a bit. We’ve not done yet. You say your two young mashers are still in tow, Alf?”
“Yes; green as duckweed. But they’re nearly played out, I guess. One of them has a little bill for fifty pounds coming due in a fortnight, and t’other—well, he wagered me a hundred pounds on a horse that never ran for the Leger, and he’s got one or two trifles besides down in my books.”
“Yes, I got you that tip about the Leger,” said Durfy, beginning to think himself neglected in this dialogue of self-congratulation.
“Yes; you managed to do it this time without botching it, for a wonder!” said Mr Shanklin.
“Yes; and I hope you’ll manage to give me the ten-pound note you promised me for it, Mr S.,” replied Durfy, with a snarl. “You seem to have forgotten that, and my commission too for finding you your new secretary.”
“Yes. By the way,” said Mr Medlock, “he deserves something for that; it’s the best stroke of business we’ve done for a long time. It’s worth three weeks to us to have him there to answer questions and choke off the inquisitive. He’s got his busy time coming on, I fancy. Bless you, Durfy, the fellow was born for us! He swallows anything. I’ve allowed him thirteen shillings a week till Christmas, and he says, ‘Thank you.’ He’s had his name turned inside out, and I do believe he thinks it an improvement! He sticks in the place all day with that young cockney gaol-bird you picked us up too, Durfy, and never growls.”