"But you--don't mean to--to entrust--everything--to--me?"
"Of course, John."
"But sir--"
"I have every confidence in your judgment, you see. Here is money,
you will want more, of course, but this will do to go on with."
But Peterby only stared from Barnabas to the money on the table, and
back again.
"Sir," said he at last, "this is--a great deal of money."
"Well, John?"
"And I would remind you that we are in London, sir, and that
yesterday I--was a poacher--a man of no character--a--"
"But to-day you are my valet, John. So take the money and buy me
whatever I require, but a tailor first of all."
Then, as one in a dream, Peterby took up the money, counted it,
buttoned it into his pocket, and crossed to the door; but there he
paused and turned.
"Sir," said he slowly, "I'll bring you a man who, though he is
little known as yet, will be famous some day, for he is what I may
term an artist in cloth. And sir,"--here Peterby's voice grew
uncertain--"you shall find me worthy of your trust, so help me God!"
Then he opened the door, went out, and closed it softly behind him.
But as for Barnabas, he sat with his gaze fixed on the ceiling again,
lost in reverie and very silent. After a while he spoke his thoughts
aloud.
"A race!" said he.