“Then I’ll get him a fresh suit and a topcoat before many hours are over, and not a day too soon either,” answered Kezia, rubbing her hands in the way she always did when well satisfied with herself or with things in general.
“No! no!” almost shrieked Mr Fluke. “If he gets a topcoat that will hide the threadbare jacket you talk of, and that will serve well enough in the office for a year to come, or more.”
“You said, Mr Fluke, that I was to do as I chose,” exclaimed Kezia, looking her master in the face. “You are a man of your word, and always have been from your youth upwards, and I, for one, will not let you break it in your old age. I choose to get Owen a new suit and a topcoat, so say no more about the matter.”
The next morning Kezia appeared in her bonnet and shawl as Owen was about to start.
“Let the old man go on first, I am going with you,” she said.
Mr Fluke was never a moment behind time in starting from home, and he knew that Owen could easily overtake him.
Kezia accompanied Owen to Mr Snipton’s, a respectable tailor in the City, where she ordered an entire suit and a thoroughly comfortable topcoat.
“Take his measure,” she said, “and allow for his growing; remember Simon Fluke will pay for the things.”
Mr Snipton did as he was directed, and while Owen hurried on to overtake Mr Fluke before he reached the office, Kezia returned home. Owen had, however, to wear his threadbare jacket for some days longer. During this period he was returning one evening, and was crossing Bishopsgate Street, when a hooded gig, or cab, as it was called, containing two young gentlemen—one of whom, dressed in a naval uniform, was driving—came dashing along at a rapid rate. It was in a narrow part of the street, of which a waggon and some other vehicles occupied a considerable portion. In attempting to pass between the waggon and pavement the cab was driven against the hinder wheel of the ponderous waggon, which was going in the same direction that it was—towards the Bank. The natural consequence ensued—the horse came down, and both the young gentlemen were thrown out, one narrowly escaping falling under the wheel of the waggon, while the tiger behind, whose head struck against the hood, fell off stunned. Owen ran forward to render what assistance he could.
“Go to the horse’s head, boy!” exclaimed the elder of the gentlemen, addressing Owen in an imperious tone, while he was picking himself up. “Reginald, are you hurt?”