"Ef you plaise, what be I to say?"
Sam very heartily wished both boy and letter to the devil. He groaned aloud, and was about to answer, when he paused suddenly.
In the room above Mr. Moggridge was singing a jaunty stave.
The sound goaded Sam to madness; he ground his teeth and made up his mind.
"Say 'yes,'" he answered, shortly.
The word was no sooner spoken than he wished it recalled. But the urchin had taken to his heels. With an angry sigh Sam let circumstance decide for him, and returned to the reading-room.
No doubt the consciousness that pique had just betrayed his judgment made him the more inclined to quarrel with the poet. But assuredly the sight that met his eyes caused his blood to boil; for Mr. Moggridge was calmly in possession of the chair and newspaper which Sam had but a moment since resigned.
"Excuse me, but that is my chair and my paper."
"Eh?" The poet looked up sweetly. "Surely, the Club chair and the Club paper—"
"I have but this moment left them."