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Plaskwith extricated himself from the gripe of Philip, and, hurrying from the shop, said, as he banged the door: "Beg my pardon for this to-night, or out you go to-morrow, neck and crop! Zounds! a pretty pass the world's come to! I don't believe a word about your mother. Baugh!" Left alone, Philip remained for some moments struggling with his wrath and agony.
"More fool he, I'm sure, with such a fine family of his own! Don't look at me in that way, young man; I won't take it that I won't! I declare my blood friz to see you!" "Will you advance me money? five pounds only five pounds, Mr. Plaskwith?" "Not five shillings! Talk to me in this style! not the man for it, sir! highly improper.
Christopher Plaskwith, is a bookseller and stationer with pretty practice, in R . He is a clever man, and has a newspaper, which he kindly sends me every week; and, though it is not my county, it has some very sensible views and is often noticed in the London papers, as 'our provincial contemporary. Mr.
She is poor, poor, perhaps starving; money, money! lend me money! ten pounds! five! I will work for you all my life for nothing, but lend me the money!" "Hoity-toity!" said Mrs. Plaskwith, nudging her husband "I told you what would come of it: it will be 'money or life' next time."
Plaskwith, and too blinded by his emotions to see that in that silence there was relenting, he suddenly shook the little man with a vehemence that almost overset him, and cried: "You, who demand for five years my bones and blood my body and soul a slave to your vile trade do you deny me bread for a mother's lips?" Trembling with anger, and perhaps fear, Mr.
Plaskwith owes me some money, which I advanced him when he set up the paper; and he has several times most honestly offered to pay me, in shares in the said paper. But, as the thing might break, and I don't like concerns I don't understand, I have not taken advantage of his very handsome proposals.
So there they remained their lips silent, their hearts speaking to each other each from each taking strange succour and holy strength till Philip rose, calm, and with a quiet smile, "Good-bye, mother; I will go at once to Mr. Plaskwith." "But you have no money for the coach-fare; here, Philip," and she placed her purse in his hand, from which he reluctantly selected a few shillings.
Come, shut up the shop, and recollect yourself; and, perhaps, when Sir Thomas's library is done, I may let you go to town. You can't go to-morrow. All a sham, perhaps; eh, Hannah?" "Very likely! Consult Plimmins. Better come away now, Mr. P. He looks like a young tiger." Mrs. Plaskwith quitted the shop for the parlour.
Plaskwith took out a huge pocketbook, slowly unclasped it, staring hard at Philip, with what he designed for a piercing and penetrative survey. "This is the letter no! this is Sir Thomas Champerdown's order for fifty copies of the last Mercury, containing his speech at the county meeting. Your age, young man? only sixteen? look older; that's not it that's not it and this is it! sit down. Yes, Mr.
Philip did not heed or hear this address; but stood immediately before the bookseller, his hands clasped wild impatience in his eyes. Mr. Plaskwith, somewhat stupefied, remained silent. "Do you hear me? are you human?" exclaimed Philip, his emotion revealing at once all the fire of his character. "I tell you my mother is dying; I must go to her! Shall I go empty-handed! Give me money!" Mr.
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