“I don’t know what you’re driving at,” said the other, confronting him angrily.  “I haven’t got no money.”

Mr. Vickers coughed.  “Don’t say that, Joseph,” he urged, softly; “don’t say that, my lad.  As a matter o’ fact, I come round to you, interrupting of you in your work, and I’m sorry for it—­knowing how fond of it you are—­to see whether I couldn’t borrow a trifle for a day or two.”

“Ho, did you?” commented Mr. Tasker, who had opened the oven door and was using his hand as a thermometer.

His visitor hesitated.  It was no use asking for too much; on the other hand, to ask for less than he could get would be unpardonable folly.

“If I could lay my hand on a couple o’ quid,” he said, in a mysterious whisper, “I could make it five in a week.”

“Well, why don’t you?” inquired Mr. Tasker, who was tenderly sucking the bulb of the thermometer after contact with the side of the oven.

“It’s the two quid that’s the trouble, Joseph,” replied Mr. Vickers, keeping his temper with difficulty.  “A little thing like that wouldn’t be much trouble to you, I know, but to a pore man with a large family like me it’s a’most impossible.”

Mr. Tasker went outside to the larder, and returning with a small joint knelt down and thrust it carefully into the oven.

“A’most impossible,” repeated Mr. Vickers, with a sigh.

“What is?” inquired the other, who had not been listening.

The half-choking Mr. Vickers explained.

“Yes, o’ course it is,” assented Mr. Tasker.

“People what’s got money,” said the offended Mr. Vickers, regarding him fiercely, “stick to it like leeches.  Now, suppose I was a young man keeping company with a gal and her father wanted to borrow a couple o’ quid—­a paltry couple o’ thick’uns—­what d’ye think I should do?”

“If you was a young man—­keeping company with a gal—­and ’er father wanted—­to borrow a couple of quid off o’ you—­what would you do?” repeated Mr. Tasker, mechanically, as he bustled to and fro.

Mr. Vickers nodded and smiled.  “What should I do?” he inquired again, hopefully.

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said the other, opening the oven door and peering in.  “How should I?”

At the imminent risk of something inside giving way under the strain, Mr. Vickers restrained himself.  He breathed hard, and glancing out of window sought to regain his equilibrium by becoming interested in a blackbird outside.

“What I mean to say is,” he said at length, in a trembling voice—­“what I mean to say is, without no round-aboutedness, will you lend a ’ard-working man, what’s going to be your future father-in-law, a couple o’ pounds?”

Mr. Tasker laughed.  It was not a loud laugh, nor yet a musical one.  It was merely a laugh designed to convey to the incensed Mr. Vickers a strong sense of the absurdity of his request.

“I asked you a question,” said the latter gentleman, glaring at him.