“I’m a shilling short,” said the coachman.
“He says he has got one short shilling,” said the Foreigner.
“Poo—poo—poo,” said the thick-lips and double-chin. “Pay the fellow his superfluous claim, and appeal to magisterial authority.”
“It’s what we mean to do, Sir,” said the English usher, “but”—and he laid his lips mysteriously to the Doctor’s ear.
“A pecuniary bagatelle,” said the Doctor. “It’s palpable extortion,—but I’ll disburse it,—and you have a legislatorial remedy for his avaricious demands.” As the man of pomp said this, he thrust his fore finger into an empty waistcoat-pocket—then into its fellow—and then into every pocket he had—but without any other product than a bunch of keys, two ginger lozenges, and the French mark.
“It’s very peculiar,” said the Doctor. “I had a prepossession of having currency to that amount. The coachman must call to-morrow for it at Vespasian House—or stay—I perceive my housekeeper. Mrs. Plummer! pray just step hither and liquidate this little commercial obligation.”
Now, whether Mrs. Plummer had or had not a shilling, Mrs. Plummer only knows; for she did not condescend to make any search for it,—and if she had none, she was right not to take the trouble. However, she attempted to carry the point by a coup de main. Snatching up one of the boxes, she motioned the housemaid to do the like, exclaiming in a shrill treble key,—“Here’s a pretty work indeed, about a paltry shilling! If it’s worth having, it’s worth calling again for,—and I suppose Vespasian House is not going to run away!”
“But may be I am,” said the inflexible coachman, seizing a trunk with each hand.
“John, I insist on being let out,” screamed the lady in the coach. “I shall be too late for dinner,” roared the Thunderer in the dickey. As for the passenger on the box, he had made off during the latter part of the altercation.