“Ah, you mistake me all ze time. Ze bony, he is not mine; I hire him to bring me to Midfont House. Here is my carte, my friend. Take it to Mr. Thomas Dorrell, viz gompliments. He do not know my name, so! But he know ze name of ze firma I rebresent, and he vill like to see me, I know zat, because he place large orders, vair large, viz our gompany; he is vat you call a gustomer, you understand.” Timothy Ball looked doubtfully at the visitor, and at the card he offered to him. “There’s customers, and rum customers,” he said. “Rum!” interrupted the stranger. “If Mr. Dorrell like rum, we can subbly any quantity, in cask or bottle, at rock-bottom price.” Timothy sniggered and rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “Rum ain’t the word for it,” he said. “’Tis downright bloomin’ funny, that’s what it is. Well, guv’nor, hold hard a bit; I’ll just ’phone through to Mr. Dorrell and tell him you’re here. _’Ow_ do you say your name?” “Schwab! Hildebrand Schwab, rebresentative of ze Schlagintwert Gombany of Düsseldorf.” “Can’t say all that; telephone won’t stand it. Wait a bit while I try Swob.” He rang up and put his ear to the receiver. “Are you there? That you, Mr. Dorrell?... There’s a man here ... a man ... a gentleman to see you, name Swib ... Swob! So he _said_, sir.... Travels for rum, by what I can make out——” “No! no!” cried Schwab; but Timothy glared him into silence. “Said you wouldn’t know him, sir, but you’re a customer of his firm.... No, sir, _not_ rum.... Can’t say it, sir.... Very well, sir (glancing at the card): S C H L A G I N T W.... You’ve got it, sir.... He didn’t say, sir.... Very well, sir.” “Mr. Dorrell wants to know what you’ve come for.” “Vill you be so kind as permit me to speak to him myself?” “No; your trotter might run away.... Yes, sir, one minute.... Now, out with it, Mr. Swob; Mr. Dorrell’s busy.” “Zen tell him I come from Düsseldorf on behalf of my firma to pay zeir respects and gompliments to zeir valued gustomer and to zay zat ve shall be alvays most pleased to subbly anyzink vatefer zat Mr. Dorrell vants in quickest possible tempo egzept our Number Six Photographic Sensitizer vich require fortnight notice——” “Arf a mo!... Yes, sir, but there’s such a lot of it I can’t get hold of it all.... No, sir, not walk; the gentleman’s rather lame, sir; came in a pony cart.... Very well, sir.” “Mr. Dorrell says he’ll be here in a few minutes if you’ll wait.” “Vy certainly. I can get no train for two hour. I vait in ze house?” “No, Mr. Dorrell ain’t in the house. He’ll come here. We always interview rum customers at the gate.” “No, no, no; not rum, my friend; and Mr. Dorrell is ze gustomer. He buy of _us_; at least, he order; Mr. Greatorex pay.” “Well, it don’t matter to you, I s’pose, so long as you get your money? Mr. Greatorex’s money is good enough for me, anyway. Paid for that topping cigar of yours, didn’t it?”