“Saw that chap in the white ’at?  I’ve just told him str’ight that if he comes into this shop again I’ll kick ’im.  I told him str’ight—­see?”

“Did you?  I like to hear a man talk like that.  It shows there’s something in him.  Who is the fellow?  I seem to remember him somehow.”

“Quodlings’ traveller.  And he’s lost them my orders.  And I shall write and tell ’em so.  I never did like that chap; but when he comes in ’ere, with his white ’at, telling me how to manage my own business, and larfin’, yis larfin’, why, I’ve done with him.  And I told him str’ight,” etc.

“Quodlings’, eh?” said Gammon reflectively.  “They’re likely to be wanting a new traveller, I should say.”

“They will if they take my advice,” replied the shopkeeper.  “And that I shall give ’em, ’ot and strong.”

As he drove on Gammon mused over this incident.  The oil and colour business was not one of his “specialities,” but he knew a good deal about it, and could easily learn what remained.  The name of Quodling interested him, being that of the man in the City who so strikingly resembled Mr. Clover; who, moreover, was probably connected in some way with the oil and colour firm.  It might be well to keep an eye on Quodlings’—­a substantial concern, likely to give one a chance of the “permanency” which was, on the whole, desirable.

He had a boy with him to hold the horses, a sharp lad, whose talk gave him amusement when he was tired of thinking.  They found a common interest in dogs.  Gammon invited the youngster to come and see his “bows-wows” at Dulwich, and promised him his choice out of the litter of bull terriers.  With animation he discoursed upon the points of this species of dog—­the pure white coat; the long, lean, punishing head, flat above; the breadth behind the ears, the strength of back.  He warned his young friend against the wiles of the “faker,” who had been known to pipeclay a mottled animal and deceive the amateur.  Altogether the day proved so refreshing that Gammon was sorry when its end drew near.

Greenacre was late for his appointment at the stables; he came in a suit of black, imperfectly fitting, and a chimney-pot hat some years old, looking very much like an undertaker’s man.  His appearance seemed to prove that he really had attended a funeral, which renewed Gammon’s wonder.  As a matter of course they repaired to the nearest eating-house to have a meal together—­an eating-house of the old fashion, known also as a coffee-shop, which Gammon greatly preferred to any kind of restaurant.  There, on the narrow seats with high wooden backs, as uncomfortable a sitting as could be desired, with food before him of worse quality and worse cooked than any but English-speaking mortals would endure, he always felt at home, and was pleasantly reminded of the days of his youth, when a supper of eggs and bacon at some such resort rewarded him for a long week’s toil and pinching.  Sweet to him were the rancid odours, delightfully familiar the dirty knives, the twisted forks, the battered teaspoons, not unwelcome the day’s newspaper, splashed with brown coffee and spots of grease.  He often lamented that this kind of establishment was growing rare, passing away with so many other features of old London.