“Not likely,” he said, “he’d tell me where he was a-goin’ to, when he’d got thirty-five-pound of mine in his pocket, the young thief. All I can say is, he’d better not show up again in a hurry till that little bill’s squared up.” And here Mr Cripps relapsed into quite a state of righteous indignation.
“Wait till he do come back, I says,” he repeated. “I’ll be on him, mister, no error. I’ll let the folks know the kind of young gents you turn out up at your school, so I will.”
Mr Rastle took no notice of all this. He admitted to himself that this man had some reason for being disagreeable, if Loman had really absconded with such a debt as he represented.
“Thirty-five pounds,” continued Cripps, becoming quite sentimental over his wrongs, “and if you won’t believe me, look at this. This here bit of paper’s all I’ve got in return for my money—all I’ve got!”
And so saying he took from his pocket and exhibited to Mr Rastle the very promissory note, signed by Loman, which he had pretended to tear up and burn the last time that unhappy boy was at the Cockchafer.
Had Mr Rastle known as much as the reader knows he would not have wasted more time over Mr Cripps. He would have seen that, whatever had happened to the boy, Mr Cripps’s purpose was to make money by it. But he did not know all, and looked at the bill with mingled astonishment and sorrow as an important piece of evidence.
“He really owed you this?” he asked.
“He did so—every brass farthing, which I’ve waited ever since Michaelmas for it, mister. But I ain’t a-going to wait no longer. I must have my money slap down, I let you know, or somebody shall hear of it.”
“But he has paid you something?” said Mr Rastle, remembering Oliver’s account of the loan of eight pounds.
“Has he?” exclaimed Cripps, satirically. “Oh, that’s all right, only I ain’t seen it, that’s all.”