“Fifty pounds,” said the cook. “I’ve come all the way from London like this.”
“Well, I’m blest!” said the man. “What won’t they think of next! Got much farther to go?”
“Oakville,” said the cook, mentioning a place he had heard of in his wanderings. “At least I was, but I find it’s too much for me. Would you mind doing me the favor of cutting this line?”
“No, no,” said the other reproachfully, “don’t give up now. Why, it’s only another seventeen miles.”
“I must give it up,” said the cook, with a sad smile.
“Don’t be beat,” said the man warmly. “Keep your ’art up, and you’ll be as pleased as Punch presently to think how near you was losing.”
“Cut it off,” said the cook, trembling with impatience; “I’ve earned forty pounds of it by coming so far. If you cut it off I’ll send you ten of it.”
The man hesitated while an inborn love of sport struggled with his greed.
“I’ve got a wife and family,” he said at last in extenuation, and taking out a clasp-knife, steadied the cook with one hand while he severed his bonds with the other.
“God bless you, mate!” said the cook, trying to straighten his bowed back as the chair fell to the ground.