“I spoke with the hammer, sir.”
“After the hammer, Isaacs.”
“Shelp me God, we was together.”
One or two more of his tribe confirmed this pious falsehood, and clamored to have them put up again.
“Call the next lot,” said the auctioneer, peremptorily. “Make up your mind a little quicker next time, Mr. Isaacs; you have been long enough at it to know the value of oak and moroccar.”
Mrs. Staines and her friend now started for Morley's Hotel, but went round by Regent Street, whereby they got glued at Peter Robinson's window, and nine other windows; and it was nearly five o'clock when they reached Morley's. As they came near the door of their sitting-room, Mrs. Staines heard somebody laughing and talking to her husband. The laugh, to her subtle ears, did not sound musical and genial, but keen, satirical, unpleasant; so it was with some timidity she opened the door, and there sat the old chap with the twinkling eyes. Both parties stared at each other a moment.
“Why, it is them,” cried the old gentleman. “Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!”
Rosa colored all over, and felt guilty somehow, and looked miserable.
“Rosa dear,” said Dr. Staines, “this is our Uncle Philip.”
“Oh!” said Rosa, and turned red and pale by turns; for she had a great desire to propitiate Uncle Philip.