Gammon--no easy task.
"What's up?" shouted her lodger in a voice of half-remembered
conviviality. "House on fire?"
"I hope not indeed. There wouldn't have been much chance for you if
it was. It's your friend Mr. Greenacre, as says he must see you for
a minute."
"All right; send him up, please. What the dickens can he want at
this time o' night!"
Mr. Gammon having promised to see his visitor out again, with due
attention to the house door, the landlady showed a light whilst Mr.
Greenacre mounted the stairs. The gas-jet in his friend's bedroom
displayed him as a gaunt, ill-dressed man of about forty, with a
long unwholesome face, lank hair, and prominent eyes. He began with
elaborate apologies, phrased and uttered with more refinement than
his appearance would have led one to expect. No; he would on no
account be seated. Under the circumstances he could not dream of
staying more than two, or at most three, minutes. He felt really
ashamed of himself for such a flagrant breach of social custom; but
if his friend would listen patiently for one minute--nay, for less.
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