Vivian Howard. Despite he stood for literature, this man had
strong business instincts.
Bill urged compliance. He knew this finder of the cat; would speak for
him as for himself.
Mr. Bitt put a quill into his inkstand; took George's name; wrote a
slip; handed it to Bill. "Take that to the cashier, Wyvern. He'll give
you the cheque. Clear your friend out. Eh? No--no need for me to see
him again. Of course you must get his story of how he found the cat,
to use when the 'What my Loss means to Me' articles run out. Then come
back and we'll fix up to-morrow's account."
A cabman drove to St. Peter's Hospital a seemingly insane young man,
who bounded into the cab with a piece of paper in his hand; who sang
and rattled his heels upon the foot-board, shouted to passers-by; who
paid with two half-crowns; who bounded, paper still fluttering in
hand, up the steps of the Dean's entrance with a wild and tremendous
whoop.
George had scarcely explained to the Dean an incoherent story of L500
won through a newspaper competition, when the Mr. Lawrence, M.R.C.S.,
L.R.C.P., whose practice was at Runnygate, arrived.
Informally the purchase was at once arranged; a further meeting
settled. George bolted to another cab; drove to Meath Street by way of
the florist near Victoria Station; took aboard an immense basket of
flowers.
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