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1
148
The Diary of a Nobody
·
George Grossmith Weedon Grossmith
145
On
the
way
home
in
the
carriage,
for
the
first
time
in
my
life,
I
was
inclined
to
indulge
in
the
radical
thought
that
money
was
not
properly
divided.
On
arriving
home
at
a
quarter-past
eleven,
we
found
a
hansom
cab,
which
had
been
waiting
for
me
for
two
hours
with
a
letter.
Sarah
said
she
did
not
know
what
to
do,
as
we
had
not
left
the
address
where
we
had
gone.
I
trembled
as
I
opened
the
letter,
fearing
it
was
some
bad
news
about
Mr.
Perkupp.
The
note
was:
“Dear
Mr.
Pooter,—
Come
down
to
the
Victoria
Hotel
without
delay.
Important.
Yours
truly,
Hardfur
Huttle.”
I
asked
the
cabman
if
it
was
too
late.
The
cabman
replied
that
it
was
not;
for
his
instructions
were,
if
I
happened
to
be
out,
he
was
to
wait
till
I
came
home.
I
felt
very
tired,
and
really
wanted
to
go
to
bed.
I
reached
the
hotel
at
a
quarter
before
midnight.
I
apologised
for
being
so
late,
but
Mr.
Huttle
said:
“Not
at
all;
come
and
have
a
few
oysters.”
I
feel
my
heart
beating
as
I
write
these
words.
To
be
brief,
Mr.
Huttle
said
he
had
a
rich
American
friend
who
wanted
to
do
something
large
in
our
line
of
business,
and
that
Mr.
Franching
had
mentioned
my
name
to
him.
We
talked
over
the
matter.
If,
by
any
happy
chance,
the
result
be
successful,
I
can
more
than
compensate
my
dear
master
for
the
loss
of
Mr.
Crowbillon’s
custom.
Mr.
Huttle
had
previously
said:
“The
glorious
‘Fourth’
is
a
lucky
day
for
America,
and,
as
it
has
not
yet
struck
twelve,
we
will
celebrate
it
with
a
glass
of
the
best
wine
to
be
had
in
the
place,
and
drink
good
luck
to
our
bit
of
business.”
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