Part 34 (1/2)
”Jessie'd no business to write you. Cladsley's all right. Don't you worry about Jessie.”
”I'm not worrying,” laughed the other, ”I only wanted to be sure it was suitable and all that.”
”I'll look after Jessie.” The words were ungracious, but Sam looked worried and uncertain. ”You've done enough for us.”
”You old dog in the manger,” persisted Christopher good-temperedly, ”you'll never let me do anything for Jessie, and, after all, it was she who used to take my part when you fought me, Master Sam, and wouldn't let you bully me.”
Sam grinned. ”Yes, it was always Jim that was in the right then. Don't you bother. Cladsley's a good sort if she would only make up her mind.”
”I gathered his job would be up soon and I thought I might find another for him if it's all straight with them. That's why I came to see you.”
Sam appeared still reluctant.
”It's all beastly stuck-up pride on your part,” concluded Christopher after more argument. ”I expect you'll cut me next; you are getting too prosperous, Mr. Sartin.”
But they parted good friends, and the car re-threaded its way through the crowded streets out into a meaner, more deserted neighbourhood, till at length they emerged on a long empty straight road with small yellow brick houses on either side, as yet uninhabited.
”What's the engaging young grocer's name?” asked Masters abruptly.
”Sartin--Sam Sartin.”
”Known him long?”
”We were children together.”
”Relations, perhaps?”
”No.”
”Why did he call you Jim?”
”I used to be Jim.”
”James Aston?”
”No.”
”What then?”
”I've forgotten,” said Christopher very deliberately.
Mr. Masters laughed genially. ”I like a good liar. You don't want to tell me anything about yourself. Very likely you are wise, but all the same I am very curious to know all about you--who you are, and how you came to the Astons, and who was your mother, and when and where Aymer met her. You see,” he added confidentially, ”I used to be about with Aymer a good bit and I thought I knew all----” He stopped abruptly. If he were being purposely tactless he realised he had gone far enough.
”I do not think Aymer ever met my mother. I am certain you haven't.
Mr. Aston used to know her, and suggested Aymer's adopting me when he heard I was left stranded in a workhouse. I was just a workhouse boy.
Now, are you satisfied as to my private history, sir?”
”No,” retorted the inquisitor good-humouredly as ever, ”you must have had a father, you know.”
”It seems possible. I do not remember him.”