The club was wroth. “What, you went and made yourself safe and never gave any of us a chance? Was that neighbourly? was that—clubbable?”
To a hailstorm of similar reproaches, Maxley made but one reply, “'Twarn't my business to take care o' you.” He added, however, a little sulkily, “I was laad for slander once: scalded dog fears lue-warm water.”
“Oh,” said one, “I don't believe him. He puts a good face on it but his nine hundred is gone along with ourn.”
“'Taiu't gone far, then.” With this he put his hand in his pocket, and, after some delay, pulled out a nice new crisp note and held it up. “What is that? I ask the company.”
“Looks like a ten-pun note, James.”
“Welt the bulk 'grees with the sample; I knows where to find eightscore and nine to match this here.”
The note was handed round: and on inspection each countenance in turn wore a malicious smile; till at last Maxley, surrounded by grinning faces, felt uneasy.
“What be 'e all grinning at like a litter o' Chessy cats? Warn't ye ugly enough without showing of your rotten teeth?”
“Haw! Haw!”
“Better say 'tain't money at all, but only a wench's curl paper:” and he got up and snatched it fiercely out of the last inspector's hand. “Ye can't run your rigs on me,” said he. “What an if I can't read words, I can figures; and I spelt the ten out on every one of them, afore I'd take it.”