“So it is. How are you, my man? We were talking of you not two minutes ago.”
Durfy pulled up and found himself confronted by two gentlemen, one about forty and the other a fashionable young man of twenty-five.
“How are you, Mr Medlock?” said he to the elder in as familiar a tone as he could assume; “glad to see you, sir. How are you, too, Mr Shanklin, pretty well?”
“Pretty fair,” said Mr Shanklin. “Come and have a drink, Durfy. You look all in the blues. Gone in love, I suppose, eh? or been speculating on the Stock Exchange? You shouldn’t, you know, a respectable man like you.”
“He looks as if he’d been speculating in mud,” said Mr Medlock, pointing to the unfortunate overseer’s collar and hat, which still bore traces of his recent calamity. “Never mind; we’ll wash it off in the Bodega. Come along.”
Durfy felt rather shy at first in his grand company, especially with the consciousness of his muddy collar. But after about half an hour in the Bodega he recovered his self-possession, and felt himself at home.
“By the way,” said Mr Medlock, filling up his visitor’s glass, “last time we saw you you did us nicely over that tip for the Park Races, my boy! If Alf and I hadn’t been hedged close up, we should have lost a pot of money.”
“I’m very sorry,” said Durfy. “You see, another telegram came after the one I showed you, that I never saw; that’s how it happened. I really did my best for you.”
“But it’s a bad job, if we pay you to get hold of the Rocket’s telegrams and then lose our money over it,” said Mr Medlock. “Never mind this time, but you’d better look a little sharper, my boy. There’s the Brummagem Cup next week, you know, and we shall want to know the latest scratches on the night before. It’ll be worth a fiver to you if you work it well, Durfy. Fill up your glass.”
Mr Durfy obeyed, glad enough to turn the conversation from the miscarriage of his last attempt to filch his employers’ telegrams for the benefit of his betting friends’ and his own pocket.