A Strange Likeness by Paula Marshall Page A

to say in the way of fresh terms. I’m sure, Mr Simpson, sir, that you will understand why I needed to know your exact terms. I thought at first that they were a hum, you see.’
    His smile when he said this was so engaging that it nearly undid George.
    It was Simpson who was purple now. ‘No one from Dilhorne’s has ever complained before. Not Mr Johnstone, here, nor his predecessor, Mr Montagu.’
    â€˜Well, Montagu wouldn’t, would he?’ said Alan agreeably. ‘Seeing that you were giving him a cut of your profits to get him to sign preposterous agreements like the one you just offered me. Not preposterous for you, Ido acknowledge. But you soon saw that George here was green—begging your pardon, George—and you offered him nothing. Another big mistake. Greedy, weren’t you? Think how poor George felt when he learned what you’d been giving Montagu. I had to up his stipend to console him.’
    He got up, tossing the paper on to the table before them and saying negligently, ‘Think it over. You’ll find my offer is at the bottom. I expect to hear from you, one way or the other, tomorrow.’
    George bursting behind him, he swept out. It was not the first time, nor the last, that he was to leave a room in an uproar. The recriminations at Simpson were severe.
    â€˜Now how the devil did he find out that Montagu was on the take?’ moaned one.
    â€˜Went through all the books like a hawk when he first got here,’ said another. ‘I always thought that we should have listened to the talk about him—and his father.’
    â€˜But who would have thought it?’ wailed Simpson miserably. ‘Perfect picture of a ninny when he came in, and then there was all that wretched business with the paper. He looked like Johnstone’s worst.’
    â€˜Not giving Johnstone a cut was a big mistake,’ said the first speaker, wise after the event. ‘Bound to help that bastard of a boy crucify us when he found out.’
    â€˜Laughing their heads off at us this minute, no doubt,’ said Simpson miserably. It was the truest statement he had made all morning.
    â€˜Never had such fun in all my life,’ gasped George when Alan treated him to a drink in the City Road. ‘You should have seen his face when you started writing on that piece of paper as though you didn’t know what writing was, after you’d made him repeat his awful terms three times running. Once to me, and twice to you. Youeven got him choking out a fourth. You should be on the stage, Dilhorne. You looked like the village idiot at play. Where did you learn such tricks? God, you’re a fly-boy. No one’s safe around you.’
    This was a sentiment echoed by an embittered Simpson at the end of the uproar.
    Alan looked modest. ‘I may be fly, but I never cheat—until I’m cheated, that is. Anything goes then—no ceiling to it. Mind that, George. Honesty first, last and always, if you can. It pays better in the long run—but take the dishonest for every penny. I’m sorry I had to cut you up a bit, but it was all in a good cause. Not your fault that you were brought up to live a soft life, not a hard one. At least you’re learning fast.’
    Unlike Ned Hatton, was Alan’s private judgement.
    George nodded, then exploded over his claret. ‘Worried about getting your sums right, were you? That was the richest bit of all! I’ve never met anyone faster with figures than you.’
    Alan nodded, amused by the pleasure of his recent recruit to hard work and common sense. When George asked him if he thought that Simpson would agree to the terms he had offered, he answered him plainly.
    â€˜Bound to, aren’t they? They need our business. They won’t want to lose it—particularly since somehow the truth about today will get out. Biter bit, and all that.
    â€˜Close with us and they get something. Lose us to Jenkinson and