CHAPTER XV.
A PRAISER OF PAST TIMES.
-- --Now your traveller, He and his toothpick at my worship's mess.
_King John._ The noise stated at the conclusion of last chapter to have disturbed Mr.
Bindloose, was the rapping of one, as in haste and impatience, at the Bank-office door, which office was an apartment of the Banker's house, on the left hand of his passage, as the parlour in which he had received Mrs.Dods was upon the right.
In general, this office was patent to all having business there; but at present, whatever might be the hurry of the party who knocked, the clerks within the office could not admit him, being themselves made prisoners by the prudent jealousy of Mr.Bindloose, to prevent them from listening to his consultation with Mrs.Dods.They therefore answered the angry and impatient knocking of the stranger only with stifled giggling from within, finding it no doubt an excellent joke, that their master's precaution was thus interfering with their own discharge of duty.
With one or two hearty curses upon them, as the regular plagues of his life, Mr.Bindloose darted into the passage, and admitted the stranger into his official apartment.

The doors both of the parlour and office remaining open, the ears of Luckie Dods (experienced, as the reader knows, in collecting intelligence) could partly overhear what passed.
The conversation seemed to regard a cash transaction of some importance, as Meg became aware when the stranger raised a voice which was naturally sharp and high, as he did when uttering the following words, towards the close of a conversation which had lasted about five minutes--"Premium ?--Not a pice, sir--not a courie--not a farthing--premium for a Bank of England bill ?--d'ye take me for a fool, sir ?--do not I know that you call forty days par when you give remittances to London ?" Mr.Bindloose was here heard to mutter something indistinctly about the custom of the trade.
"Custom!" retorted the stranger, "no such thing--damn'd bad custom, if it is one--don't tell me of customs--'Sbodikins, man, I know the rate of exchange all over the world, and have drawn bills from Timbuctoo--My friends in the Strand filed it along with Bruce's from Gondar--talk to me of premium on a Bank of England post-bill!--What d'ye look at the bill for ?--D'ye think it doubtful--I can change it." "By no means necessary," answered Bindloose, "the bill is quite right; but it is usual to indorse, sir." "Certainly--reach me a pen--d'ye think I can write with my rattan ?--What sort of ink is this ?--yellow as curry sauce--never mind--there is my name--Peregrine Touchwood--I got it from the Willoughbies, my Christian name--Have I my full change here ?" "Your full change, sir," answered Bindloose.
"Why, you should give _me_ a premium, friend, instead of me giving you one." "It is out of our way, I assure you, sir," said the Banker, "quite out of our way--but if you would step into the parlour and take a cup of tea"---- "Why, ay," said the stranger, his voice sounding more distinctly as (talking all the while, and ushered along by Mr.Bindloose) he left the office and moved towards the parlour, "a cup of tea were no such bad thing, if one could come by it genuine--but as for your premium"-- --So saying, he entered the parlour and made his bow to Mrs.Dods, who, seeing what she called a decent, purpose-like body, and aware that his pocket was replenished with English and Scottish paper currency, returned the compliment with her best curtsy.
Mr.Touchwood, when surveyed more at leisure, was a short, stout, active man, who, though sixty years of age and upwards, retained in his sinews and frame the elasticity of an earlier period.

His countenance expressed self-confidence, and something like a contempt for those who had neither seen nor endured so much as he had himself.

His short black hair was mingled with grey, but not entirely whitened by it.

His eyes were jet-black, deep-set, small, and sparkling, and contributed, with a short turned-up nose, to express an irritable and choleric habit.