13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle)

freckle-faced pug-nosed young man wearing the same apron came forward.

'I want to see Mr. Roberts,' said Winlass, trembling with excitement, which he was trying not to show.

The freckle-faced youth shook his head.

'You can't see Mr. Roberts,' he said. 'He ain't here.'

'Where can I find him?' barked Winlass.

'You can't find him,' said the youth phlegmatically. 'He don't want to be found. Want your shoes mended, sir?'

'No. I do not want my shoes mended!' roared Winlass, dancing in his impatience. 'I want to see Mr. Roberts. Why can't I find him? Why don't he want to be found? Who the hell are you, anyhow?'

'I do be Mr. Roberts's second cousin, sir,' said Peter Quentin, whose idea of dialects was hazy but convincing. 'I do have bought Mr. Roberts's shop, and I'm here now, and Mr. Roberts ain't coming back, sir, that's who I be.'

Mr. Winlass wrenched his features into a jovial beam.

'Oh, you're Mr. Roberts's cousin, are you?' he said, with gigantic affability. 'How splendid! And you've bought his beautiful shop. Well, well. Have a cigar, my dear sir, have a cigar.'

The young man took the weed, bit off the wrong end, and stuck it into his mouth with the band on—a series of mo­tions which caused Mr. Winlass to shudder to his core. But no one could have deduced that shudder from the smile with which he struck and tendered a match.

'Thank 'ee, sir,' said Peter Quentin, 'Now, sir, can I mend thy shoes?'

He admitted afterwards to the Saint that the strain of maintaining what he fondly believed to be a suitable patois was making him a trifle light-headed; but Mr. Vernon Winlass was far too preoccupied to notice his abberations.

'No, my dear sir,' said Mr. Winlass, 'my shoes don't want mending. But I should like to buy your lovely house.'

The young man shook his head.

'I ain't a-wanting to sell 'er, sir.'

'Not for a thousand pounds?' said Mr. Winlass calcu­latingly.

'Not for a thousand pounds, sir.'

'Not even,' said Mr. Winlass pleadingly, 'for two thou­sand?'

'No, sir.'

'Not even,' suggested Mr. Winlass, with an effort which caused him acute pain, 'if I offered you three thousand?'

The young man's head continued to shake.

'I do only just have bought 'er, sir. I must do my work somewhere. I wouldn't want to sell my house, not if you of­fered me four thousand for 'er, that I wouldn't.'

'Five thousand,' wailed Mr. Winlass, in dogged anguish.

The bidding rose to seven thousand five hundred before Peter Quentin relieved Mr. Winlass of further torture and himself of further lingual acrobatics. The cheque was made out and signed on the spot, and in return Peter attached his signature to a more complicated document which Mr. Win-lass had ready to produce from his breast pocket; for Mr. Vernon Winlass believed in Getting Things Done.