‘I am not an advance agent for books I know nothing about, sir,’ returned the other with dignity, as he took the volume up again. ‘I sell a genuine article, sir, for cash on the nail. In transactions of that kind there can be no mistake, sir.’ ‘Umph!’ growled the squatter doubtfully. ‘Well, as long as the missus says it’s all right, I s’pose it is. How much?’ He paid without a murmur. Mrs M. was a lady who stood no trifling. ‘Wrap the thing up and put it in the buggy,’ said he. ‘Gad, it’s as big as the station ledger! Look sharp, now, I’m in a hurry!’ ‘So am I,’ quoth Mr Potts, as he returned. ‘John, what time does the next train start?’ * * * * * When the manager reached home that afternoon with ‘Don Quixote,’ and compared notes and books, there was a row, the upshot of which was that he received orders to hurry off at once in pursuit, and avenge the trick played upon them. ‘You’re a J.P.,’ stormed the lady, ‘and if you can’t give that oily villain three months, what’s the use of you? Besides, isn’t five pounds worth recovering?’ Mr Morris would much sooner have let the matter drop quietly. No man likes to publicly advertise the fact of his having been duped, least of all by a book-fiend. ‘Well, well, my dear,’ said he at last, ‘never mind. I’ll go directly. I’ve got some letters to write first But I’ll send M‘Fadyen into town to see the fellow doesn’t get away.’ ‘Tell him,’ said the manager, as the overseer was preparing to start, ‘tell him I’m coming in presently, about—um—er—about a book. Oh, and if he gives you anything, perhaps you’d better take it. No use,’ he muttered to himself, with a side glance to where his wife sat, ‘letting all hands and the cook know one’s business. The beggar ’ll only be too glad to stump up when he finds I’m in earnest. Thought, I suppose, that I wouldn’t bother about it, eh, what!’ Inquiring at the ‘Royal,’ the overseer was told that Mr Potts had left; although, perhaps, if he hastened, he might yet see him, as the train hadn’t started. Sure enough, galloping up to the station and searching along the carriages, he found his man just making himself comfortable in smoking-cap and slippers. ‘Be jakers, mister,’ he gasped breathlessly, ‘the Boss wants to see ye badly! Have ye got anythin’ for him? It’s of a book he was spakin’. Tould me to tell ye that he’d be in himself directly.’ ‘Too late! Can’t stop! Time’s up!’ replied Mr Potts. ‘But’—rising to the occasion, and taking the last copy of ‘Do-ree’ out of his portmanteau—‘this is it. It’s for Master Reginald’s birthday. Your Boss wouldn’t miss having it for three times the money. Six pounds—quick!’ In a desperate flurry, the overseer ransacked his pockets. No; he could only muster four. ‘All right, guard, wait a minute!’ he yelled as, borrowing the balance, he clutched the book, whilst the train, giving a screech, moved away, with Mr Potts nodding and grinning a friendly farewell.