Now, it was Mr. Furze's practice always to make out his accounts
himself. It was a pure waste of time, for he would have been much
better employed in looking after his men, and any boy could have
transcribed his ledger. But no, it was characteristic of the man
that he preferred this occupation--that he took the utmost pains to
write his best copybook hand, and to rule red-ink lines with
mathematical accuracy. Two days after the quarter a bill went to
the builder, beginning, "To account delivered." The builder was
astonished, and instantly posted down to the shop, receipt in hand,
signed, "For J. Furze, T. C." Mr. Furze looked at his ledger again,
called for the day-book, found no entry, and then sent for Tom. The
history of that afternoon flashed across him in an instant.
"That's your signature, Mr. Catchpole," said Mr. Furze.
"Yes, sir."
"But here's no entry in the day-book, and, what's more, there
weren't thirty shillings that night in the till."
"I cannot account for it, unless I signed the receipt before I had
the money. It was just when Mr. Eaton's accident happened, and I
ran out of the shop while Joe was waiting. When I came back he had
gone."
"Which is as much as to say," said the builder, "that Joe's a thief.
You'd better be careful, young man."
"Well, Mr. Humphries," said Mr. Furze, loftily, "we will not detain
you: there is clearly a mistake somewhere; we will credit you at
once with the amount due for the previous quarter, and if you will
give me your account I will correct it now.
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