"You can pop off, Jack."
Exit boots to his slumbers once more.
"Well, Mr. Jackson, what's it all about?"
"Jellicoe asked me to come and bring you the money."
"The money? What money?"
"What he owes you; the five pounds, of course."
"The five--" Mr. Barley stared openmouthed at Mike for a moment; then he
broke into a roar of laughter which shook the sporting prints on the
wall and drew barks from dogs in some distant part of the house. He
staggered about laughing and coughing till Mike began to expect a fit of
some kind. Then he collapsed into a chair, which creaked under him, and
wiped his eyes.
"Oh dear!" he said, "Oh dear! The five pounds!"
Mike was not always abreast of the rustic idea of humor, and now he felt
particularly fogged. For the life of him he could not see what there was
to amuse anyone so much in the fact that a person who owed five pounds
was ready to pay it back. It was an occasion for rejoicing, perhaps, but
rather for a solemn, thankful, eyes-raised-to-heaven kind of rejoicing.
"What's up?" he asked.
"Five pounds!"
"You might tell us the joke."
Mr. Barley opened the letter, read it, and had another attack; when this
was finished he handed the letter to Mike, who was waiting patiently by,
hoping for light, and requested him to read it.
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