“I gave ’em the double,” returned the tinker, with a grin. “I’ll tell yer all about it another time, if so be ye’re interested in a miserable bloke like me, which aint at all likely, seeing as how yer a-keeping company with the hupper classes.”
There was a tone of irony in the man’s manner which jarred upon the feelings of Peace, who, however, thought it best to take no notice of it.
“We’d better have something to drink first, and then I can hear what you have to say,” remarked Peace, as he touched the bell.
Glasses of grog were ordered and promptly served. Peace paid for the liquor, and gave the potman a shilling as a gratuity.
“Here’s to our noble selves,” said the tinker, raising his glass to his lips. “Ah, that does a cove a world o’ good!”
“Well, now, then, we’ll proceed to business,” observed Peace. “You’re hard up.”
“I’m done up—bust up, and ha’ been pretty nigh starving. That’s how I am, and seeing as how I aint got bite nor sup—same what we’ve jest now had in—I’ve made so bold as to lay my case afore one who won’t send me away empty-handed—leastways not if he ’ave the means to hold a ’elping ’and to a pal vot’s in distress.”
“I’m in no very good position myself, but whatever I can spare you are welcome to.”
“Blessed if I didn’t say so. I know’d it—vot yer can do you vill do.”
“Yes, here’s a quid for your immediate wants. It’s all I can spare now, for I must tell you I’ve cut the old game—don’t intend to have any more of it.”