The Magistrate - LightNovelsOnl.com
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MR. POSKET.
[_In a daze, giving him the five s.h.i.+llings._] Like this?
ISIDORE.
Yes, like that. [_Slipping the money into his pocket._] I beg your pardon--thank you. [_Handing CIS the rest of the change._] Your change, Mr. Farringdon.
CIS.
Oh, I say, Isidore.
_BLOND, a fat, middle-aged French hotel-keeper, enters with a letter in his hand._
ISIDORE.
Monsieur Blond.
BLOND.
Good evening, Mr. Farringdon.
ISIDORE.
[_Quietly to BLOND._] Ze bill is all right.
CIS.
Good evening. [_Introducing MR. POSKET._] My friend, Mr. Harvey Skinner, of the Stock Exchange.
BLOND.
Very pleased to see you. [_To CIS._] Are you going to enjoy yourselves?
CIS.
Rather.
BLOND.
You usually eat in this room, but you don't mind giving it up for to-night--now, do you?
CIS.
Oh, Achille!
BLOND.
Come, come, to please me. A cab has just brought a letter from an old customer of mine, a gentleman I haven't seen for over twenty years, who wants to sup with a friend in this room to-night. It's quite true.
[_Giving CIS a letter._]
CIS.
[_Reading to himself._] "19A, Cork Street. Dear Blond,--Fresh, or rather, stale from India--want to sup with my friend, Captain Vale, to-night, at my old table in my old room. Must do this for Auld Lang Syne. Yours, Alexander Lukyn." [_To BLOND._] Oh, let him have it.
Where will you put us?
BLOND.
You shall have the best room in the house, the one next to this. This room--pah! Come with me. [_To MR. POSKET._] Have you known Mr.
Farringdon for a long time?
MR. POSKET.
No, no. Not very long.
BLOND.
Ah, he is a fine fellow--Mr. Farringdon. Now, if you please. You can go through this door.
[_Wheels sofa away and unlocks the door._
CIS.
[_To MR. POSKET._] You'll look better after a gla.s.s or two of Pommery, Guv.
MR. POSKET.
No, no, Cis--now, no champagne.
CIS.
No champagne, not for my friend, Harvey Skinner! Come, Guv--dig me in the ribs--like this. [_Digging him in the ribs._] Chuck!
MR. POSKET.
[_Shrinking._] Oh, don't!
CIS.
And say, Hey! Go on, Guv.
MR. POSKET.
I can't--I can't. I don't know what it may mean.
CIS.
[_Digging him in the ribs again._] Go on--ch-uck!
