WHEAL MARY JANE
Mr. Manylodes was, at any rate, right in this, that
that beverage, which men call bishop, is a doctored
tipple; and Alaric Tudor, when he woke in the morning,
owned the truth. It had been arranged that certain
denizens of the mine should meet the two Commissioners
at the pit-mouth at eight o’clock, and it had
been settled at dinner-time that breakfast should
be on the table at seven, sharp. Half an hour’s
quick driving would take them to the spot.
At seven Mr. Fidus Neverbend, who had never yet been
known to be untrue to an appointment by the fraction
of a second, was standing over the breakfast-table
alone. He was alone, but not on that account
unhappy. He could hardly disguise the pleasure
with which he asked the waiter whether Mr. Tudor was
yet dressed, or the triumph which he felt when he
heard that his colleague was not quite ready.
‘Bring the tea and the eggs at once,’
said Neverbend, very briskly.
‘Won’t you wait for Mr. Tudor?’
asked the waiter, with an air of surprise. Now
the landlord, waiter, boots, and chambermaid, the
chambermaid especially, had all, in Mr. Neverbend’s
estimation, paid Tudor by far too much consideration;
and he was determined to show that he himself was
first fiddle.
’Wait! no; quite out of the question—bring
the hot water immediately—and tell the
ostler to have the fly at the door at half-past seven
exact.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the man, and disappeared.
Neverbend waited five minutes, and then rang the bell
impetuously. ’If you don’t bring me
my tea immediately, I shall send for Mr. Boteldale.’
Now Mr. Boteldale was the landlord.
‘Mr. Tudor will be down in ten minutes,’
was the waiter’s false reply; for up to that
moment poor Alaric had not yet succeeded in lifting
his throbbing head from his pillow. The boots
was now with him administering soda-water and brandy,
and he was pondering in his sickened mind whether,
by a manful effort, he could rise and dress himself;
or whether he would not throw himself backwards on
his coveted bed, and allow Neverbend the triumph of
descending alone to the nether world.
Neverbend nearly threw the loaf at the waiter’s
head. Wait ten minutes longer! what right had
that vile Devonshire napkin-twirler to make to him
so base a proposition? ’Bring me my breakfast,
sir,’ shouted Neverbend, in a voice that made
the unfortunate sinner jump out of the room, as though
he had been moved by a galvanic battery.
In five minutes, tea made with lukewarm water, and
eggs that were not half boiled were brought to the
impatient Commissioner. As a rule Mr. Neverbend,
when travelling on the public service, made a practice
of enjoying his meals. It was the only solace
which he allowed himself; the only distraction from
the cares of office which he permitted either to his
body or his mind. But on this great occasion
his country required that he should forget his comforts;
and he drank his tasteless tea, and ate his uncooked
eggs, threatening the waiter as he did so with sundry
pains and penalties, in the form of sixpences withheld.
