“No—no—no—you shall have no more,” said the moneyless Frenchman.
By this time the housemaid of Vespasian House, tired of standing with the door in her hand, had come down to the garden-gate, and, willing to make herself generally useful, laid her hand on one of the Foreigner’s trunks.
“It shan’t go till I’m paid my shilling,” said the coachman, taking hold of the handle at the other end.
The good-natured housemaid instantly let go of the trunk, and seemed suddenly to be bent double by a violent cramp, or stitch, in her right side,—while her hand groped busily under her gown. But it was in vain. There was nothing in that pocket but some curl-papers, and a brass thimble.
The stitch or cramp then seemed to attack her other side; again she stooped and fumbled, while Hope and Doubt struggled together on her rosy face. At last Hope triumphed,—from the extremest corner of the huge dimity pouch she fished up a solitary coin, and thrust it exultingly into the obdurate palm.
“It won’t do,” said the coachman, casting a wary eye on the metal, and holding out for the inspection of the trio a silver-washed coronation medal, which had been purchased of a Jew for twopence the year before.
The poor girl quietly set down the trunk which she had again taken up, and restored the deceitful medal to her pocket. In the meantime the arithmetical usher had arrived at the gate in his way out, but was stopped by the embargo on the luggage. “What’s the matter now?” asked the man of figures.
“If you please, Sir,” said the housemaid, dropping a low courtesy, “it’s this impudent fellow of a coachman will stand here for his rights.”
“He wants a shilling more than his fare,” said Mr. Barber.