but there’s not many would ha’ gone hungry with a watch like that about them. However, t’ waggon’s ready, an’ we’ll take good care you don’t go hungry today.”
Tom’s only answer was a sudden attempt to back out of the breakfast, and it failed. He tried again as they drove past Fetter Lane—he could pay his way in Rolls Buildings now—but this time the waggoner whipped up his horse and refused to listen.
“No, no,” said he; “a promise is a promise, and I warrant they’ll be proud to see you.”
“You mean your wife and family?” said Tom.
“Nay,” said Butterfield, “I doubt you’ll not see them there.”
“Not at your house?” cried Tom.
“It isn’t mine,” confessed the other; “it’s my wife’s brother’s. He drives a hackney-coach, and I use his stable every other morning. Me an’ my missus live out at Hendon, and I come in three nights a week.”
“But you mustn’t saddle these people with me. Let me get down at once!”
“Mustn’t I?” chuckled the waggoner. “I’ll take the blame then. We’re very near there; and dashed if that isn’t Jim on his way home to breakfast. Jim! Jim!”
And a hackney-coach, crawling leisurely along in front, was pulled up as the coachman turned round and recognised Butterfield.
“Well, Jonathan, how are you?”
“How’s yourself, Jim? Early and late, as usual, eh? This is a young gent who has ridden in with me. He’s waiting till t’ offices open, and I thought you’d give us both a bit of breakfast.”
“Always glad to oblige a gen’leman,” said the coach-
