et us go into all that again! I’m not going to marry on four hundred a year and spend the rest of my life in a pokey little flat on the edge of London. Why can’t you make more money?”I did have a dash at it, you know. I waylaid old Bodger–Colonel Bodger, on the committee of the club, you know–and suggested over a whisky-and-soda that the management of Brown’s would be behaving like sportsmen if they bumped my salary up a bit, and the old boy nearly strangled himself trying to suck down Scotch and laugh at the same time. I give you my word, he nearly expired on the smoking-room floor. When he came to he said that he wished I wouldn’t spring my good things on him so suddenly, as he had a weak heart. He said they were only paying me my present salary because they liked me so much. You know, it was decent of the old boy to say that.’
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