“No,” said Peter gravely, “I like your laughing.”
“Ah! That is well.” Suddenly he jerked his body forward and stared into Peter's face.
“Well! . . . Will you come?”
Peter hung back, his face white. He was only conscious that Zachary, quiet and smiling in the background, watched him intently.
“What! . . . with you . . . to London!”
“Yes . . . wiz me—what of your father? Will he be furious, hey?”
“He won't like it—” Peter continued slowly. “But I don't care. I'll leave him—But I should have no money—nothing!”
“An', no matter—I will take you to London for nothing and then—if you like it—you may work for me. Two pounds a week—you would be useful.”
“What should I do?”
“I have a bookshop—you would look after ze books and also ze customers.” This seemed to amuse Mr. Zanti very much. “Two pounds a week is a lot of money for ze work—and you will have time—ho yes—much time for your stories.”
Peter's eyes burned. London—a bookshop—freedom. Oh! wonderful world! His heart was beating so that words would not come.
“Oh!” he murmured. “Oh!”
“Ah, that's well!” Mr. Zanti clapped him on the shoulder. “There is no need for you to say now. On ze Wednesday in Easter week I go—before then you will tell me. We shall get on together, I know it. If you will 'ave a leetle more of ze Humour you will be a very pleasant boy—and useful—Ho, yes!”
To Peter then the shop was not visible—a mist hung about his eyes. “Much time for your stories” . . . said Mr. Zanti, and he shouted with laughter as his big form hung before Peter. The large white hand with the flashing rings enclosed Peter's.
For a moment the hands were on his shoulders and in his nostrils was the pungent scent of the hair-oil that Mr. Zanti affected—afterwards silence.
Peter said farewell to Zachary and promised to come
