“A nice sort of a chap, this,” said Jim; “he’s signed your bill, and he ain’t got the money.”
“S’pose I must wait, then.”
“Look ’ere, Joe: don’t you be a b---y fool! You take your account. If he writes his name afore he’s paid, that’s his look-out.”
Joe hesitated.
“Wot are you a-starin’ at? You’ve got the receipt, ain’t yer? Isn’t that enough? You ain’t a-robbin’ of him, for you never giv him the money, and I tell yer agin as he’s the one as ought to lose if he don’t look sharp arter people. That’s square enough, ain’t it?”
Joe had a remarkably open mind to reasoning of this description, and, without another word, he took up the bill and was off. Jim also thought it better to return to the foundry. Mr. Eaton, happily, was not injured, for he fell on a truss of straw, but the excitement was great; and, when Tom returned, Joe’s visit completely went out of his head, and did not occur to him again, for two or three customers were waiting for him, and, as already observed, it was market day.
Now, it was Mr. Furze’s practice always to make out his accounts himself. It was a pure waste of time, for he would have been much better employed in looking after his men, and any boy could have transcribed his ledger. But no, it was characteristic of the man that he preferred this occupation—that he took the utmost pains to write his best copybook hand, and to rule red-ink lines with mathematical accuracy. Two days after the quarter a bill went to the builder, beginning, “To account delivered.” The builder was astonished, and instantly posted down to the shop, receipt in hand, signed, “For J. Furze, T. C.” Mr. Furze looked at his ledger again, called for the day-book, found no entry, and then sent for Tom. The history of that afternoon flashed across him in an instant.
“That’s your signature, Mr. Catchpole,” said Mr. Furze.
“Yes, sir.”
“But here’s no entry in the day-book, and, what’s more, there weren’t thirty shillings that night in the till.”