"
Pedgift Senior habitually matched everybody--his son included--
with their own weapons. "Be good enough to remember, Augustus,"
he rejoined, "that my Room is not a Court of Law. A bad joke
is not invariably followed by 'roars of laughter' _here_. Let
Mr. Bashwood come in."
Mr. Bashwood was introduced, and Pedgift Junior withdrew. "You
mustn't bleed him, sir," whispered the incorrigible joker, as
he passed the back of his father's chair. "Hot-water bottles
to the soles of his feet, and a mustard plaster on the pit of
his stomach--that's the modern treatment."
"Sit down, Bashwood," said Pedgift Senior when they were alone.
"And don't forget that time's money. Out with it, whatever it is,
at the quickest possible rate, and in the fewest possible words."
These preliminary directions, bluntly but not at all unkindly
spoken, rather increased than diminished the painful agitation
under which Mr. Bashwood was suffering. He stammered more
helplessly, he trembled more continuously than usual, as he made
his little speech of thanks, and added his apologies at the end
for intruding on his patron in business hours.
"Everybody in the place, Mr.
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