As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation of having bruised three or four boys to death already, it occurred to him that the board had, perhaps, in some unaccountable freak, taken it into their heads that this extraneous circumstance ought to influence their proceedings. It was very unlike their general mode of doing business, if they had; but still, as he had no particular wish to revive the rumour, he twisted his cap in his hands, and walked slowly from the table.
“So you won’t let me have him, gen’l’men?” said Mr. Gamfield, pausing near the door.
“No,” replied Mr. Limbkins; “at least, as it’s a nasty business, we think you ought to take something less than the premium we offered.”
Mr. Gamfield’s countenance brightened, as, with a quick step, he returned to the table, and said:
“What’ll you give, gen’l’men? Come! Don’t be too hard on a poor man. What’ll you give?”
“I should say, three pound ten was plenty,” said Mr. Limbkins.
“Ten shillings too much,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
“Come!” said Gamfield; “say four pound, gen’l’men. Say four pound, and you’ve got rid of him for good and all. There!”
“Three pound ten,” repeated Mr. Limbkins, firmly.
“Come! I’ll split the difference, gen’l’men,” urged Gamfield. “Three pound fifteen.”
“Not a farthing more,” was the firm reply of Mr. Limbkins.
“You’re desperate hard upon me, gen’l’men,” said Gamfield, wavering.