Take a cigar, Mr. Moggs." But Moggs declined all refreshment for the body. He was a tall, thin, young man, with long straggling hair, a fierce eye, very thick lips, and a flat nose—a nose which seemed to be all nostril;—and then, below his mouth was a tuft of beard, which he called an imperial. It was the glory of Ontario Moggs to be a politician;—it was his ambition to be a poet;—it was his nature to be a lover;—it was his disgrace to be a bootmaker. Dependent on a stern father, and aware that it behoved him to earn his bread, he could not but obey; but he groaned under this servitude to trade, and was only happy when speaking at his debating club, held at the Cheshire Cheese, or when basking in the beauty of Polly Neefit. He was great upon Strikes—in reference to which perilous subject he was altogether at variance with his father, who worshipped capital and hated unions. Ontario held horrible ideas about co-operative associations, the rights of labour, and the welfare of the masses. Thrice he had quarrelled with his father;—but the old man loved his son, and though he was stern, strove to bring the young man into the ways of money-making. How was he to think of marrying Polly Neefit—as to the expediency of which arrangement Mr. Moggs senior quite agreed with Mr. Moggs junior—unless he would show himself to be a man of business? Did he think that old Neefit would give his money to be wasted upon strikes? Ontario, who was as honest a fool as ever lived, told his father that he didn't care a straw for Neefit's money. Then Moggs the father had made a plunge against the counter with his sharp-pointed shoemaker's knife, which he always held in his hand, that had almost been fatal to himself; for the knife broke at the thrust, and the fragment cut his wrist. At this time there was no real Booby, and the firm was in truth Moggs, and Moggs only. The great question was whether it should become Moggs and Son. But what tradesman would take a partner into his firm who began by declaring that strikes were the safeguards of trade, and that he—the proposed partner—did not personally care for money? Nevertheless old Moggs persevered; and Ontario, alive to the fact that it was his duty to be a bootmaker, was now attempting to carry on his business in the manner laid down for him by his father.
A worse dun—a dun with less power of dunning—than Ontario Moggs could not be conceived. His only strength lay in his helplessness. When he found that Mr. Newton had two friends with him, his lips were sealed. To ask for money at all was very painful to him, but to ask for it before three men was beyond his power. Ralph Newton, seeing something of this, felt that generosity demanded of him that he should sacrifice himself. "I'm afraid you've come about your bill, Mr. Moggs," he said. Ontario Moggs, who on the subject of Trades' Unions at the Cheshire Cheese could pour forth a flood of eloquence that would hold the room in rapt admiration, and then bring down a tumult of applause, now stammered out a half-expressed assent. "As Mr. Newton was engaged perhaps he had better call again."
"Well;—thankee, yes. It would be as well. But what's the total, Mr. Moggs?" Ontario could not bring himself to mention the figures, but handed a paper to our friend. "Bless my soul! that's very bad," said our friend. "Over two hundred pounds for boots! How long can your father give me?"
"He's a little pressed just at present," whispered Moggs.
"Yes;—and he has my bill, which he was forced to take up at Christmas. It's quite true." Moggs said not a word, though he had been especially commissioned to instruct the debtor that his father would be forced to apply through his solicitor, unless he should receive at least half the amount due before the end of the next week. "Tell your father that I will certainly call within the next three days and tell him what I can do;—or, at least, what I can't do. You are sure you won't take a cigar?" Moggs was quite sure that he wouldn't take a cigar, and retired, thanking Ralph as though some excellent arrangement had been made which would altogether prevent further difficulties.
"That's the softest chap I ever saw," said Lieutenant Cox.
"I wish my fellows would treat me like that," said Captain Fooks. "But I never knew a fellow have the luck that Newton has. I don't suppose I owe a tenth of what you do."
"That's your idea of luck?" said Ralph.
"Well;—yes. I owe next to nothing, but I'll be hanged if I can get anything done for me without being dunned up to my very eyes. You know that chap of Neefit's? I'm blessed if he didn't ask me whether I meant to settle last year's bill, before he should send me home a couple of cords I ordered! Now I don't owe Neefit twenty pounds if all was told."
"What did you do?" asked Lieutenant Cox.
"I just walked out of the shop. Now I shall see whether they're sent or not. They tell me there's a fellow down at Rugby makes just as well as Neefit, and never bothers you at all. What do you owe Neefit, Newton?"
"Untold sums."
"But how much really?"
"Don't you hear me say the sums are untold?"
"Oh; d——n it; I don't understand that. I'm never dark about anything of that kind. I'll go bail it's more than five times what I do."
"Very likely. If you had given your orders generously, as I have done, you would have been treated nobly. What good has a man in looking at twenty pounds on his books? Of course he must get in the small sums."
"I suppose there's something in that," said the captain thoughtfully. At this moment the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of another emissary—an emissary from that very establishment to which they were alluding. It was Ralph Newton's orders that no one should ever be denied to him when he was really in his rooms. He had fought the battle long enough to know that such denials create unnecessary animosity. And then, as he said, they were simply the resources of a coward. It was the duty of a brave man to meet his enemy face to face. Fortune could never give him the opportunity of doing that pleasantly, in the field, as might happen any day to his happy friends, Captain Fooks and Lieutenant Cox; but he was determined that he would accustom himself to stand fire;—and that, therefore, he would never run away from a dun. Now there slipped very slowly into the room, that most mysterious person who was commonly called Herr Bawwah—much to the astonishment of the three young gentlemen, as the celebrated cutter of leather had never previously been seen by either of them elsewhere than standing silent at his board in Neefit's shop, with his knife in his hands. They looked at one another, and the two military gentlemen thought that Mr. Neefit was very much in earnest when he sent Bawwah to look for his money. Mr. Neefit was very much in earnest; but on this occasion his emissary had not come for money. "What, Herr Bawwah;—is that you?" said Ralph, making the best he could of the name. "Is there anything wrong at the shop?" The German looked slowly round the room, and then handed to the owner of it a little note without a word.
Ralph read the note—to himself. It was written on one of the shop bills, and ran as follows:—"Have you thought of what I was saying? If so, I should be happy to see Mr. Newton either in Conduit Street or at Alexandrina Cottage." There was neither signature nor date. Ralph knew what he was called upon to do, as well as though four pages of an elaborate epistle had been indited to him. And he knew, too, that he was bound to give an answer. He asked the "Herr" to sit down, and prepared to write an answer at once. He offered the Herr a glass of brandy, which the Herr swallowed at a gulp. He handed the Herr a cigar, which the Herr pocketed;—and in gratitude for the latter favour some inarticulate grunt of thanks was uttered. Ralph at once wrote his reply, while the two friends smoked, looked on, and wondered. "Dear Mr. Neefit—I will be with you at eleven to-morrow morning. Yours most truly, Ralph Newton." This he handed, with another glass of brandy, to the Herr. The Herr swallowed the second glass—as he would have done a third had it been offered to him—and then took his departure.
"That was another dun;—eh, Newton?" asked the lieutenant.
"What a conjuror you are?" said Ralph.
"I never heard of his sending Bawwah out before," said the captain.
"He never does under two hundred and fifty pounds," said Ralph. "It's a mark of the greatest respect. If I wore nothing but brown cords, like you, I never should have seen the Herr here."
"I never had a pair of brown cords in my life!" said the offended captain. After this the conversation fell away, and the two warriors went off to their military occupations at the Horse Guards, where, no doubt, the Commander-in-chief was waiting