"Think of it, sor! Fifteen bob for goin' a mile, she a-hollerin' all
the time that she'd double the fare if I kep' ahead. But, Lord love ye,
sor, she needn't 'a' worried; me old plug had run in the Derby wance,
and for a short spurt like that he was game back to the stump of
his tail."
* * * * *
When the last morning of his enforced exile arrived and Fin, before I
was half-dressed, presented himself outside my bedroom door, an open
letter in his hand, not a trace of the punt-poling Irishman was visible
in his make-up!
He wore a glazed white tile, a yellow-brown coat with three capes, cut
pen-wiper fashion, and a pair of corduroy trousers whose fulness
concealed in part the ellipse of his legs.
"Here's a letter from me boss, sor," he blurted out, holding it toward
me. "He says I kin go to work in the mornin'. Ye don't mind, do
ye, sor?"
"Of course I mind, Fin; I'll have trouble to fill your place. Are you
sorry to leave?"
"Am I sorry, sor? No!--savin' yer presence, I'm glad.
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