“The portmantle is safe, sir, an’ number five is here with it an’ wants for to see ye, sir.”
“Well, I do not want to see number five, waiter, so just say—”
“I dar’n’t say nothin’, sir; she slipped a half a crown into the heel of me fist an’ towld me to hurry you up,” burst in the waiter, now in a white perspiration.
“I’ll not stir till I finish this cigar, at all events, and there is a good hour’s pull in it yet.”
“Och! murther, an’ she’s in such a hurry—such a dainty little craythur; an’ it was so dacent of her for to journey back the road with it.”
This last thrust failed to pierce my armor. The waiter was conscientiously working out his half-crown.
“She’s quite convaynient in the coffee-room, sir. I’ll show ye a short cut across the bog.”
I listened and puffed, puffed and listened.
“I must get back, sir. May I tell her ye’ll be over in five minutes, sir?”
“Tell her anything you like, my friend, but out of this till I finish my cigar I’ll not stir.”