“Come, don’t be a fool, Sam,” said the girl, coaxingly, “the gentleman wants his boots directly.”
“Well, you are a nice young ’ooman for a musical party, you are,” said the boot-cleaner. “Look at these here boots—eleven pair o’ boots; and one shoe as b’longs to number six, with the wooden leg. The eleven boots is to be called at half-past eight and the shoe at nine. Who’s number twenty-two, that’s to put all the others out? No, no; reg’lar rotation, as Jack Ketch said, ven he tied the men up. Sorry to keep you a waitin’, sir, but I’ll attend to you directly.”
Saying which, the man in the white hat set to work upon a top-boot with increased assiduity.
There was another loud ring; and the bustling old landlady of the White Hart made her appearance in the opposite gallery.
“Sam,” cried the landlady—“where’s that lazy, idle—why, Sam—oh, there you are; why don’t you answer?”
“Wouldn’t be gen-teel to answer, ’till you’d done talking,” replied Sam, gruffly.
“Here, clean them shoes for number seventeen directly, and take ’em to private sitting-room, number five, first floor.”
The landlady flung a pair of lady’s shoes into the yard, and bustled away.
“Number five,” said Sam, as he picked up the shoes, and taking a piece of chalk from his pocket, made a memorandum of their destination on the soles—“Lady’s shoes and private sittin’ room. I suppose she didn’t come in the vaggin.”
“She came in early this morning,” cried the girl, who was still leaning over the railing of the gallery, “with a gentleman in a hackney coach, and it’s him as wants his boots, and you’d better do ’em, that’s all about it.”