The Magistrate Part 19

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!