Collins," retorted Borkins. "When you
h'addresses a gentleman try to remember 'ow to speak to 'im. I've 'ad
nothink whatever to do with Sir Nigel's evenin' papers, and you know it.
If they're late, well, wouldn't it be worth your while to go down to the
station and 'ave a gentle word or two with one of the officials there?"
"Oh well, then, old Fiddlefyce," retorted Collins, with a good-natured
grin, "don't lose yer wool over it; you ain't got any ter spare. 'Is
Lordship's been a-arskin' fer 'em, and like as not they ain't turned up.
Let's see what's the time? 'Arf-past eight." He shook his bullet-shaped
head. "Well, I'll be doin' as you say. Slap on me 'at and jacket and myke
off ter the blinkin' stytion. What's the shortest w'y, Borkins, me
beauty?"
Borkins looked at him a moment, and his face went a dull brick colour.
Then he smirked sarcastically.
"Like as not you're so brave you wouldn't mind goin' across the Fens," he
said. "Them there flames wouldn't be scarin' such a 'ero as Mr. James
Collins. Oh no! You'll find it a mile or so less than the three miles by
road.
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