Part 30 (1/2)

”That's the way of it. You an' me'll be mates right through; and we'll paint this town red for a week when we've made our pile.”

”Jake! Drat that boy; where is he? Jake, come here.”

The shock-headed youth came running from the back yard, where he was chopping wood.

”Me and this gentleman,” said his master, ”are going for a little excursion. We start to-morrow morning. See? I was thinking of closing the shop, but I've decided to leave you in charge till I return.”

The lad stood with his hands in his pockets, and blew a long, shrill whistle. ”Of all the tight corners I was ever in,” he said, ”this takes the cake. I'll want a rise in wages--look at the responsibility, boss.”

The goldsmith laughed. ”All right,” he said. ”You shall have ten s.h.i.+llings a week extra while I'm away; and if we have luck, Jake, I'll make it a pound.”

”Right-oh! I'll take all the responsibility that comes along. I'll get fat on it. And when you come back, you'll find the business doubled, and the reputation of B. Tresco increased. It'll probably end in you taking me in as partner--but _I_ don't care: it's all the same to _me_.”

The goldsmith made an attempt to box the boy's ear, but Jake dodged his blow.

”That's your game, is it?” exclaimed the young rogue. ”Bash me about, will you? All right--I'll set up in opposition!”

He didn't wait for the result of this remark, but with a sudden dart he pa.s.sed like a streak of lightning through the doorway, and fled into the street.

CHAPTER XVII.

Rachel's Wiles.

Rachel Varnhagen walked down the main street of Timber Town, with the same bustling gait, the same radiant face, the same air of possessing the whole earth, as when the reader first met her. As she pa.s.sed the Kangaroo Bank she paused, and peered through the gla.s.s doors; but, receiving no responsive glance from the immaculately attired Isaac, who stood at the counter counting out his money, she continued her way towards her father's place of business, where she found the rotund merchant in a most unusual state of excitement.

”Now, vat you come bothering me this morning, Rachel? Can't you see I'm pizzy?”

”I want a cheque, father.”

”You get no cheque from me this morning, my child. I've got poor all of a sudden. I've got no cheques for nopody.”

”But I have to get things for the house. We want a new gourmet boiler--you know you won't touch currie made in a frying-pan--a steamer for potatoes, and half-a-dozen table-knives.”

”Don't we haff no credit? What goot is my name, if you can't get stew-pans without money? Here I am, with no invoices, my orders ignored as if I was a pauper, and my whole piz'ness at a standstill. Not one single letter do I get, not one. I want a hundred thousand things. I send my orders months and months ago, and I get no reply. My trade is all going to that tam feller, Crookenden! And you come, and ask me for money. Vhen I go along to the Post Master, he kvestion me like a criminal, and pring the Police Sergeant as if I vas a thief. I tell him I nefer rob mail-bags. I tell him if other peoples lose letters, I lose them too. I know nothing aboudt it. I tell him the rascal man is Crookenden and Co.--he should take _him_ to prison: he contracts for mails and nefer delivers my letters. I tell him Crookenden and Co. is the criminal, not me. Then he laff, but that does not gif me my letters.”

During this harangue, Rachel had stood, the mute but pretty picture of astonishment.

”But, father,” she said, ”I want to go to the bank. I want to speak to Isaac awfully, and how can I go in there without some excuse!”

”I'll gif you the exguse to keep out! I tell you somethings which will make you leave that young man alone. He nefer loaf you, Rachel--he loaf only my money.”

”Father! this worry about the mail has turned you silly.”

”Oh, yes, I'm silly when I throw the ink-pot at him. I've gone mad when I kick him out of my shop. You speak to that young man nefer again, Rachel, my tear; you nefer look at him. Then, by-and-by, I marry you to the mos' peautiful young man with the mos' loafly moustache and whiskers. You leaf it to your poor old father. He'll choose you a good husband. When I was a young man I consult with _my_ father, and I marry your scharming mamma, and you, my tear Rachel, are the peautiful result.

Eh? my tear.”