I nodded. And he hawed awhile and then burst out:
“Your honour must know then that I belongs to the footman's club in Berkeley Square, where I meets all the servants o' quality—”
“Yes,” I said, wondering what footman's tale he had to tell.
“And Whipple, he's a hintimate o' mine, sir.” He stopped again.
“And who may Whipple be?”
“With submission, sir. Whipple's his Grace o' Chartersea's man—and, you'll forgive me, sir—Whipple owns his Grace is prodigious ugly, an' killed young Mr. Atwater unfair, some think. Whipple says he would give notice had he not promised the old duke—”
“Drat Whipple!” I cried.
“Yes, sir. To be sure, sir. His Grace was in a bloody rage when he found hisself in a fruit bin at Covent Carding. An' two redbreasts had carried him to the round house, sir, afore they discovered his title. An' since his Grace ha' said time an' time afore Whipple, that he'll ha' Mr. Carvel's heart for that, and has called you most disgustin' bad names, sir. An' Whipple he says to me: 'Banks, drop your marster a word, an' you get the chance. His Grace'll speak him fair to's face, but let him look behind him.'”
“I thank you again, Banks. I shall bear in mind your devotion,” I replied. “But I had nothing to do with sending the duke to Covent Garden.”
“Ay, sir, so I tells Whipple.”