The figure was plainly
sunk into a deep abstraction; he was not aware of their approach, but
gazed far abroad over the sunlit station. Michael stopped.
'Holloa!' said he, 'can that be your advertiser? If so, I'm done with
it.' And then, on second thoughts: 'Not so, either,' he resumed more
cheerfully. 'Here, turn your back a moment. So. Give me the specs.'
'But you agreed I was to have them,' protested Pitman.
'Ah, but that man knows me,' said Michael.
'Does he? what's his name?' cried Pitman.
'O, he took me into his confidence,' returned the lawyer. 'But I may say
one thing: if he's your advertiser (and he may be, for he seems to
have been seized with criminal lunacy) you can go ahead with a clear
conscience, for I hold him in the hollow of my hand.'
The change effected, and Pitman comforted with this good news, the pair
drew near to Morris.
'Are you looking for Mr William Bent Pitman?' enquired the
drawing-master. 'I am he.'
Morris raised his head. He saw before him, in the speaker, a person
of almost indescribable insignificance, in white spats and a shirt cut
indecently low.
Pages:
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262