"And I give you the money back," replied Mr. Morris.
"You did," reported Mr. Seepidge meaningly, "and I was surprised to
find there wasn't a dud note in the parcel. No, Ike, you
double-crossed me. You backed the horse and took the winnings, and
come back to me with a cock-and-bull story about not being able to find
a bookmaker."
Mr. Morris turned a pained face to his companion.
"Jim," he said, addressing Mr. Webber, "did you ever in all your born
days hear a pal put it across another pal like that? After the work
we've done all these years together, me and Lew--why, you're like a
serpent in the bush, you are really!"
It was a long time, and there was much passing of glasses across a
lead-covered bar, before Mr. Seepidge could be pacified--the meeting
took place in the private bar of "The Bread and Cheese," Camden
Town--but presently he turned from the reproachful into the melancholy
stage, explained the bad condition of business, what with the paper
bills and wages bills he had to pay, and hinted ominously at bankruptcy.
In truth, the firm of Seepidge was in a bad way. The police had
recently raided the premises and nipped in the bud a very promising
order for five hundred thousand sweepstake tickets, which were being
printed surreptitiously, for Mr. Seepidge dealt in what is colloquially
known as "snide printing."
Whether Mr. Cresta Morris had indeed swindled his partner of many
crimes, and had backed Morning Glory at a remunerative price for his
own profit, is a painful question which need not be too closely
examined. It is certain that Seepidge was in a bad way, and as Mr.
Morris told himself with admirable philosophy, even if he had won a
packet of money, a thousand or so would not have been sufficient to get
Mr. Seepidge out of the cart.
"Something has got to be done," said Mr. Cresta Morris briskly.
"Somebody," corrected the taciturn Webber. "The question is, who?"
"I tell you, boys, I'm in a pretty bad way," said Seepidge earnestly.
"I don't think, even if I'd backed that winner, I could have got out of
trouble. The business is practically in pawn; I'm getting a police
inspection once a week. I've got a job now which may save my bacon, if
I can dodge the 'splits'--an order for a million leaflets for a Hamburg
lottery house. And I want the money--bad! I owe about three thousand
pounds."
"I know where there's money for asking," said Webber, and they looked
at him.
His interesting disclosure was not to follow immediately, for they had
reached closing-time, and were respectfully ushered into the street.
"Come over to my club," said Mr. Seepidge.
His club was off the Tottenham Court Road, and its membership was
artistic. It had changed its name after every raid that had been made
upon it, and the fact that the people arrested had described themselves
as artists and actresses consolidated the New Napoli Club as one of the
artistic institutions of London.