It was the middle of Christmas week. A letter to the Bilboes
remained without answer. Gammon and Polly met every day, excited
each other, lost their tempers, were stormily reconciled. On the
morning of the thirty-first Gammon received four letters begging for
pecuniary assistance, but nothing from Greenacre. He had slept
badly, his splendid health was beginning to suffer. By jorrocks!
there should be an end of this, and that quickly.
As he loitered without appetite over a particularly greasy
breakfast, listening to Mrs. Bubb's description of an ailment from
which her youngest child was suffering, Moggie came into the kitchen
and said that a young man wished to see him. Gammon rushed up to the
front door, where, in mist and drizzle, stood a muscular youth whom
he did not recognize.
"I'm come from Mrs. Clover's, sir," said this messenger, touching
his hat. "She'd be very glad to see you as soon as you could make it
convenient to look round."
"Is that all?"
That was all; nothing more could be learnt from the young man, and
Gammon promised to come forthwith.
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