“Chicken,” returned Mr Toots, “explain yourself.”
“Why then, here’s all about it, Master,” said the Chicken. “I ain’t a cove to chuck a word away. Here’s wot it is. Are any on ’em to be doubled up?”
When the Chicken put this question he dropped his hat, made a dodge and a feint with his left hand, hit a supposed enemy a violent blow with his right, shook his head smartly, and recovered himself.
“Come, Master,” said the Chicken. “Is it to be gammon or pluck? Which?”
“Chicken,” returned Mr Toots, “your expressions are coarse, and your meaning is obscure.”
“Why, then, I tell you what, Master,” said the Chicken. “This is where it is. It’s mean.”
“What is mean, Chicken?” asked Mr Toots.
“It is,” said the Chicken, with a frightful corrugation of his broken nose. “There! Now, Master! Wot! When you could go and blow on this here match to the stiff’un;” by which depreciatory appellation it has been since supposed that the Game One intended to signify Mr Dombey; “and when you could knock the winner and all the kit of ’em dead out o’ wind and time, are you going to give in? To give in?” said the Chicken, with contemptuous emphasis. “Wy, it’s mean!”
“Chicken,” said Mr Toots, severely, “you’re a perfect Vulture! Your sentiments are atrocious.”
“My sentiments is Game and Fancy, Master,” returned the Chicken. “That’s wot my sentiments is. I can’t abear a meanness. I’m afore the public, I’m to be heerd on at the bar of the Little Helephant, and no Gov’ner o’ mine mustn’t go and do what’s mean. Wy, it’s mean,” said the Chicken, with increased expression. “That’s where it is. It’s mean.”