Twemlow’s narrative. Through which stalked the shadow of the awful Snigsworth, eyed afar off by moneylenders as Security in the Mist, and menacing Twemlow with his baronial truncheon.
To all, Mr. Fledgeby listened with the modest gravity becoming a confiding young man who knew it all beforehand, and, when it was finished, seriously shook his head. “I don’t like, Mr. Twemlow,” said Fledgeby, “I don’t like Riah’s calling in the principal. If he’s determined to call it in, it must come.”
“But supposing, sir,” said Twemlow, downcast, “that it can’t come?”
“Then,” retorted Fledgeby, “you must go, you know.”
“Where?” asked Twemlow, faintly.
“To prison,” returned Fledgeby. Whereat Mr. Twemlow leaned his innocent head upon his hand, and moaned a little moan of distress and disgrace.
“However,” said Fledgeby, appearing to pluck up his spirits, “we’ll hope it’s not so bad as that comes to. If you’ll allow me, I’ll mention to Mr. Riah when he comes in, who you are, and I’ll tell him you’re my friend, and I’ll say my say for you, instead of your saying it for yourself; I may be able to do it in a more businesslike way. You won’t consider it a liberty?”
“I thank you again and again, sir,” said Twemlow. “I am strong, strongly, disinclined to avail myself of your generosity, though my helplessness yields. For I cannot but feel that I—to put it in the mildest form of speech—that I have done nothing to deserve it.”
“Where can he be?” muttered Fledgeby, referring to his watch again. “What can he have gone out for? Did you ever see him, Mr. Twemlow?”
“Never.”