“No; trade’s bad, sir,” replied he who owned the bag.
“Well, I’ll send the most of ’em down to the country to-day,” resumed the master of the house.
“When shall I call, sir?” inquired Stumpy’s friend.
“Monday. But look here, Bill!” said the other, taking me up, “it’s no use leaving this; I shall be able to manage the gold ones, but this is no good.”
I had long lost the pride which in former days would have made me resent such a remark, and patiently waited for the result.
Stumpy’s friend took me back. “Well,” he said, “if you can’t, you can’t. I’ll see to him myself. Well, good-day; and I’ll call on Monday.”
And he turned to depart, with me in his hand. In a minute, however, he came back. “Would yer mind lending me some togs, sir, for a few minutes?” said he; “I don’t want no questions asked at the pawnshop.”
And he certainly did not look, in his present get-up, as the likeliest sort of owner of a silver watch. The man of the house, however, lent him some clothes, in which he arrayed himself, and which so transformed him that any one would have taken him, not for the disreputable thieves’ broker he was, but for the unfortunate decayed gentleman he professed to be. In this guise he had no difficulty in disposing of me at the nearest pawnbroker’s shop, which happened to be at the corner of Grime Street.
The pawnbroker asked no questions, and I am sure never suspected anything wrong. He advanced thirty shillings on me and the chain, gave the man his ticket, and put a corresponding one on me.
Then Stumpy’s friend departed, and my new master went back to his breakfast.