It certainly did look as if Loman was going to the dogs. And any one able to see and know all that was going on in his mind would have found out that he was a good deal nearer “the dogs” even than he seemed.
On the evening after the examination he received a note from Cripps—brought up in a most barefaced way by one of the potboys at the Cockchafer—requesting the pleasure of Mr Loman’s company at that pleasant spot immediately, to talk over business!
“Why didn’t he send it by post?” demanded Loman, angrily, of the disreputable messenger. “Don’t you know if you were seen up here there’d be a row?”
“Dunno so much about that, but the governor, he says he’s dead on the job this time, he says, and if you don’t show up sharp with the stumpy, he says he’ll give you a call himself and wake you up, he says—”
“Tell him I’ll come, and go off quick,” said Loman, hurriedly.
“Beg pardon, mister,” said the potboy, with a leer, and touching his cap, “anything allowed for this here little job—carrying up the letter?”
“I’ll allow you a kick if you don’t go!” exclaimed the wretched Loman, furiously.
“Oh, very good,” said the boy, making a long nose. “Wait till the governor walks up. We’ll see who’ll kick then!”
And so saying the amiable and respectable youth departed.
“Hullo!” said Wren, coming up just at this moment, “who’s your friend, Loman? He looks a nice sort of boy!”