to think himself. Many a word he and Borkins had over their master's
likes and dislikes. But invariably Collins won out. While every other
servant in the place liked him and trusted him, the sight of his honest,
red face and his ginger eyebrows was enough to make Borkins look like a
thundercloud.

The climax was reached one night in the autumn when the evening papers
failed to appear at their appointed time. Collins confronted Borkins with
the fact and got snubbed for his pains.

"'Ere you," he said--he hadn't much respect for Borkins and made no
attempt to hide the fact--"what the dooce 'as become of his lordship's
pypers? 'Ave _you_ bin 'avin' a squint at 'em, ole pieface? Jist like
your bloomin' cheek!"

"Not so much of your impidence, Mr. Collins," retorted Borkins. "When you
h'addresses a gentleman try to remember 'ow to speak to 'im. I've 'ad
nothink whatever to do with Sir Nigel's evenin' papers, and you know it.
If they're late, well, wouldn't it be worth your while to go down to the
station and 'ave a gentle word or two with one of the officials there?"

"Oh well, then, old Fiddlefyce," retorted Collins, with a good-natured
grin, "don't lose yer wool over it; you ain't got any ter spare. 'Is
Lordship's been a-arskin' fer 'em, and like as not they ain't turned up.
Let's see what's the time? 'Arf-past eight." He shook his bullet-shaped
head. "Well, I'll be doin' as you say. Slap on me 'at and jacket and myke
off ter the blinkin' stytion. What's the shortest w'y, Borkins, me
beauty?"

Borkins looked at him a moment, and his face went a dull brick colour.