“The things is well enough in their way,” observed Mr. Sikes, a little soothed as he glanced over the table; “but what have you got to say for yourself why you should leave me here, down in the mouth, health, blunt, and every thing else, and take no more notice of me all this mortal time than if I was that ’ere dog.—Drive him down, Charley.”
“I never see such a jolly dog as that,” cried Master Bates, doing as he was desired. “Smelling the grub like a old lady a-going to market! He’d make his fortun on the stage that dog would, and rewive the drayma besides.”
“Hold your din,” cried Sikes, as the dog retreated under the bed, still growling angrily. “And what have you got to say for yourself, you withered old fence, eh?”
“I was away from London a week and more, my dear, on a plant,” replied the Jew.
“And what about the other fortnight?” demanded Sikes. “What about the other fortnight that you’ve left me lying here, like a sick rat in his hole?”
“I couldn’t help it, Bill,” replied the Jew. “I can’t go into a long explanation before company; but I couldn’t help it, upon my honour.”
“Upon your what?” growled Sikes with excessive disgust. “Here, cut me off a piece of the pie, one of you boys, to take the taste of that out of my mouth, or it’ll choke me dead.”
“Don’t be out of temper, my dear,” urged the Jew submissively. “I have never forgot you, Bill; never once.”
“No, I’ll pound it, that you han’t,” replied Sikes with a bitter grin. “You’ve been scheming and plotting away every hour that I’ve laid shivering and burning here; and Bill was to do this, and Bill was to do that, and Bill was to do it all dirt cheap, as soon as he got well, and was quite poor enough for your work. If it hadn’t been for the girl, I might have died.”
“There now, Bill,” remonstrated the Jew, eagerly catching at the word. “If it hadn’t been for the girl! Who was the means of your having such a handy girl about you but me?”