Multimedia Mania/abacus-multimedia-mania.iso/dp/0064/00640.txt

Text File | 1993-07-27 | 6KB | 132 lines

$Unique_ID{bob00640}
$Pretitle{}
$Title{Anthology Of Shorter Works
Part III}
$Subtitle{}
$Author{Dickens, Charles}
$Affiliation{}
$Subject{done

}
$Date{}
$Log{}
Title:       Anthology Of Shorter Works
Book:        Hunted Down
Author:      Dickens, Charles

Part III

     On the very next day but one, I was sitting behind my glass partition,
as before, when he came into the outer office as before.  The moment I saw
him again without hearing him, I hated him worse than ever.

     It was only for a moment that I had this opportunity; for he waved his
tight-fitting black glove the instant I looked at him, and came straight in.

     "Mr. Sampson, good day!  I presume, you see, upon your kind permission
to intrude upon you.  I don't keep my word in being justified by business,
for my business here - if I may so abuse the word - is of the slightest
nature."

     I asked, was it anything I could assist him in?

     "I thank you, no.  I merely called to inquire outside, whether my
dilatory friend had been so false to himself as to be practical and sensible.
But, of course, he has done nothing.  I gave him your papers with my own
hand, and he was not upon the intention, but of course he has done nothing.
Apart from the general human disinclination to do anything that ought to be
done I dare say there is a specialty about assuring one's life?  You find it
like will-making?  People are so superstitious, and take it for granted they
will die soon afterwards?"

     "Up here, if you please.  Straight up here, Mr. Sampson.  Neither to the
right nor to the left!" I almost fancied I could hear him breathe the words,
as he sat smiling at me, with that intolerable parting exactly opposite the
bridge of my nose.

     "There is such a feeling sometimes, no doubt," I replied; "but I don't
think it obtains to any great extent."

     "Well," said he, with a shrug and a smile, "I wish some good angel would
influence my friend in the right direction.  I rashly promised his mother and
sister in Norfolk, to see it done, and he promised them that he would do it.
But I suppose he never will."

     He spoke for a minute or two on indifferent topics and went away.

     I had scarcely unlocked the drawers of my writing-table next morning
when he reappeared.  I noticed that he came straight to the door in the glass
partition, and did not pause a single moment outside.

     "Can you spare me two minutes, my dear Mr. Sampson?"

     "By all means."

     "Much obliged," laying his hat and umbrella on the table; "I came early,
not to interrupt you.  The fact is, I am taken by surprise, in reference to
this proposal my friend has made."

     "Has he made one?" said I.

     "Ye-es," he answered, deliberately looking at me; and then a bright idea
seemed to strike him; - "or he only tells me he has.  Perhaps that may be a
new way of evading the matter.  By Jupiter, I never thought of that!"

     Mr. Adams was opening the morning's letters in the outer office.  "What
is the name, Mr. Slinkton?" I asked.

     "Beckwith."

     I looked out at the door and requested Mr. Adams, if there were a
proposal in that name, to bring it in.  He had already laid it out of his
hand on the counter.  It was easily selected from the rest, and he gave it
me.  Alfred Beckwith.  Proposal to effect a policy with us for two thousand
pounds.  Dated yesterday.

     "From the Middle Temple, I see, Mr. Slinkton."

     "Yes.  He lives on the same staircase with me; his door is opposite.
I never thought he would make me his reference though."

     "It seems natural enough that he should."

     "Quite so, Mr. Sampson; but I never thought of it.  Let me see." He took
the printed paper from his pocket.  "How am I to answer all these questions!"

     "According to the truth, of course," said I.

     "O, of course!" he answered, looking up from the paper with a smile; "I
meant they were so many.  But, you do right to be particular.  Will you allow
me to use your pen and ink?"

     "Certainly."

     "And your desk?"

     "Certainly."

     He had been hovering about between his hat and his umbrella, for a place
to write on.  He now sat down in my chair, at my blotting paper and inkstand,
with the long walk up his head in accurate perspective before me, as I stood
with my back to the fire.

     Before answering each question he ran over it aloud, and discussed it.
How long had he known Mr. Alfred Beckwith?  That he had to calculate by years
upon his fingers.  What were his habits?  No difficulty about them; temperate
in the last degree, and took a little too much exercise, if anything.  All
the answers were satisfactory.  When he had written them all, he looked them
over, and finally signed them in a very pretty hand.  He supposed he had
now done with the business?  I told him he was not likely to be troubled any
further.  Should he leave the papers there?  If he pleased.  Much obliged.
Good morning!

     I had had one other visitor before him; not at the office, but at my own
house.  The visitor had come to my bedside when it was not yet daylight, and
had been seen by no one else but my faithful confidential servant.

     A second reference paper (for we required always two) was sent down into
Norfolk, and was duly received back by post.  This, likewise, was
satisfactorily answered in every respect.  Our forms were all complied with,
we accepted the proposal, and the premium for one year was paid.