'Brass roastin'-jacks at a shillin'?' exclaimed Grinder, shocked at the notion. 'Why, no!'
Mr Weech appeared mildly surprised. 'Nor yut seven-poun' jars o' jam an' pickles at sixpence?' he pursued, with his eye on those ranged behind the counter.
'No!'
'Nor doormats at fourpence?'
'Fourpence? Cert'nly not!'
Mr Weech's face fell into a blank perplexity. He pawed his ear with a doubtful air, murmuring absently:—'Well I'm sure 'e said fourpence: an' sixpence for pickles, an' bring 'em round after the shop was shut. But there', he added, more briskly, 'there's no 'arm done, an' no doubt it's a mistake.' He turned as though to leave, but Grinder restrained him.
'But look 'ere,' he said, 'I want to know about this. Wotjer mean? 'Oo was goin' to bring round pickles after the shop was shut? 'Oo said fourpence for doormats?'
'Oh, I expect it's jest a little mistake, that's all,' answered Weech, making another motion toward the door; 'an' I don't want to git nobody into trouble.'
'Trouble? Nice trouble I'd be in if I sold brass smoke-jacks for a bob! There's somethink 'ere as I ought to know about. Tell me about it straight.'
Weech looked thoughtfully at the oil-man's top waistcoat button for a few seconds, and then said:—'Yus, p'raps I better. I can feel for you, Mr Grinder, 'avin' a feelin' 'art, an' bein' in business meself. Where's your boy?'