Mr Cripps, smiling sweetly and modestly, went to his cupboard, and after a good deal of fumbling and search, produced the little slip of blue paper he was looking for.
“Is that it?” cried the excited Loman.
“Looks like it,” said Cripps, unfolding it and reading out, with his back to the boy, “‘Three months after date I promise to pay George Cripps thirty-five pounds, value received. Signed, E. Loman.’ That’s about it, eh, young gentleman? Well, blessed if I ain’t a soft-hearted chap after the doing you’ve given me over this here business. Look here; here goes.”
And so saying, Mr Cripps first tore the paper up into little bits, and then threw the whole into the fire before the eyes of the delighted Loman.
“Thanks, Cripps, thanks,” said the boy. “I am so glad everything’s settled now, and I am so sorry to have kept you waiting so long.”
“Oh, well, as long as it’s been an obligement to you, I don’t so much care,” said the virtuous Cripps. “And now you’ve done with me I suppose you’ll cut me dead, eh, young gentleman? Just the way. You stick to us as long as you can get anything out of us, and then we’re nobodies.”
And here Mr Cripps looked very dejected.
“Oh, no,” said Loman, “I don’t mean to cut you, Cripps. I shall come down now and then—really I will—when I can manage it. Good-bye now.”
And he held out his hand.
Foolish and wicked as Loman was, there was still left in him some of that boyish generosity which makes one ready to forget injuries and quick to acknowledge a good turn. Loman forgot for a moment all the hideous past, with its suspense and humiliations and miseries, and remembered only that Cripps had torn up the bill and allowed him to clear off accounts once for all at the hated Cockchafer. Alas! he had forgotten, too, about telling all to his father!