"Morgan, Morgan, to what pass have I come for you?" he privately exclaimed, while Mrs. Moreen floated voluminously down the sala again, to liberate the boy; groaning, as she went, that everything was too odious.
Before the boy was liberated there came a thump at the door communicating with the staircase, followed by the apparition of a dripping youth who poked in his head. Pemberton recognised him as the bearer of a telegram and recognised the telegram as addressed to himself. Morgan came back as, after glancing at the signature (that of a friend in London), he was reading the words: "Found jolly job for you—engagement to coach opulent youth on own terms. Come immediately." The answer, happily, was paid, and the messenger waited. Morgan, who had drawn near, waited too, and looked hard at Pemberton; and Pemberton, after a moment, having met his look, handed him the telegram. It was really by wise looks (they knew each other so well), that, while the telegraph-boy, in his waterproof cape, made a great puddle on the floor, the thing was settled between them. Pemberton wrote the answer with a pencil against the frescoed wall, and the messenger departed. When he had gone Pemberton said to Morgan:
"I'll make a tremendous charge; I'll earn a lot of money in a short time, and we'll live on it."
"Well, I hope the opulent youth will be stupid—he probably will—" Morgan parenthesised, "and keep you a long time."
"Of course, the longer he keeps me the more we shall have for our old age."
"But suppose they don't pay you!" Morgan awfully suggested.
"Oh, there are not two such—!" Pemberton paused,
