The few men who were about had a prosperous appearance,
and Gammon saw that they did not belong to his special world.
"What does the name mean?" he inquired, as they seated themselves
under a gas-jet in a corner made cosy with a deep divan.
"Bilboes? Oh, I originated it in the days gone by. The proprietor
was a man called William Bowes--you perceive? Poor little Jimmy Todd
used to roar about it. The best-natured fellow that ever lived.
You've heard me speak of him--second son of Sir Luke Todd. Died,
poor boy, out in India."
"What promise of mine were you talking about?" asked Gammon, when an
order for drinks had been given.
"Promise--promise? Nonsense! You're wool-gathering to-day, my dear
boy. By the by, I called at your place on Sunday. I was driving a
very fresh pony, new to harness; promised to trot her round a little
for a friend of mine. Thought you might have liked a little turn on
the Surrey roads."
Greenacre chatted with his usual fluency, and seemed at ease in the
world.
"You're doing well just now, eh?" said Gammon presently.
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