“Ah,” said the cobbler, “you don’t quite understand these matters. What do you suppose ruined me, now?”
“Vy,” said Sam, trimming the rushlight, “I s’pose the beginnin’ wos, that you got into debt, eh?”
“Never owed a farden,” said the cobbler; “try again.”
“Well, perhaps,” said Sam, “you bought houses, vich is delicate English for goin’ mad: or took to buildin’, which is a medical term for bein’ incurable.”
The cobbler shook his had and said, “Try again.”
“You didn’t go to law, I hope?” said Sam, suspiciously.
“Never in my life,” replied the cobbler. “The fact is, I was ruined by having money left me.”
“Come, come,” said Sam, “that von’t do. I wish some rich enemy ’ud try to vork my destruction in that ’ere vay. I’d let him.”
“Oh, I dare say you don’t believe it,” said the cobbler, quietly smoking his pipe. “I wouldn’t if I was you; but it’s true for all that.”
“How wos it?” inquired Sam, half induced to believe the fact already, by the look the cobbler gave him.