“P’raps,” remarked Butson, cynically laconic.
“In which case,” replied Uncle Isaac the adroit, “it is freely took as auffered, an’ nothin’ more need be said atween of friends after sich ’ansome apologies give an’ took, and reconciliation resooms its ’armony accordin’.”
Butson glared. “G-r-r-r!” he growled. “Apologies! What I say I mean. You’ve done very well at cheap suppers an’ what not ’ere, and to-night you’ve ’ad yer last. I’m master ’ere now. An’ you can git out as soon as ye like.”
“What?”
“Git out. Y’ought to be ashamed o’ yourself,” cried the disinterested Butson indignantly, “comin cadgin’ suppers!”
“Git out? Me? Suppers? Why, ’Enery Butson, I brought you ’ere out o’ the gutter! Out o’ the gutter, an’ fed ye!”
“Ah—a lot you fed me, and mighty anxious to do it, wasn’t ye? You clear out o’ ’ere!”
“O I’ll go! an’ I’ll see about countermandin’ a paper or two ’fore I go to bed, too. An’ my small property—”
“Yer small property!” put in Butson, with slow scorn. “Yer small property! Where is it? What is it? . . . Want to know my opinion o’ you? You’re a old ’umbug. That’s what you are. A old ’umbug.”
Uncle Isaac grew furious and purple. “’Umbug?” he said. “’Umbug? Them words to me, as saved ye from starvation? ’Umbug yerself. You an’ yer connexions, an’ mayors an’ what not! Why, ye dunno yer own trade! I wouldn’t trust ye to grind a cawfy-mill!”