Excerpt from Open Country: A Comedy With a Sting

The name of Thomas Welbore Percival was soundly respected in the city of London. It stood for a turnover of fifteen thousand pounds, and a private income of at least six thousand a year. It centred in the person of a rosy-gilled, full-waistcoated gentleman of middle life - Mr. Percival was five-and-fifty and admitted it to - whom a joke was dear, and not less dear because its scope and measurements were accurately known. When Mr. Percival came into Lomax"s Bank, had said "Morning, Wilkins - growing weather!" to the grey-whiskered cashier, and handed over his slip of green paper, a glance at the back was the only formula. Then came, "How will you take it, Mr. Percival?" and Wilkins had his bundle of notes out and his finger wet before he so much as looked at the figures. Mr. Percival"s invariable reply was, "How I can get it, my boy. Honestly if possible - in these days." Such old customs die hard.

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