“So you are at that trick, Larkins.”
“There! that bet is lost!” exclaimed Larkins. “I laid Hill half-a-crown that you would not see me when you were mooning over your verses!”
“Well, I have seen you. And now—”
“Come, you would not thrash a fellow when you have just lost him half-a-crown! Single misfortunes never come alone, they say; so there’s my money and my credit gone, to say nothing of Ballhatchet’s ginger-beer!”
The boy made such absurd faces, that Norman could hardly help laughing, though he wished to make it a serious affair. “You know, Larkins, I have given out that such things are not to be. It is a melancholy fact.”
“Ay, so you must make an example of me!” said Larkins, pretending to look resigned. “Better call all the fellows together, hadn’t you, and make it more effective? It would be grateful to one’s feelings, you know; and June,” added he, with a ridiculous confidential air, “if you’ll only lay it on soft, I’ll take care it makes noise enough. Great cry, little wool, you know.”
“Come with me,” said Norman. “I’ll take care you are example enough. What did you give for those articles?”
“Fifteen-pence halfpenny. Rascally dear, isn’t it? but the old rogue makes one pay double for the risk! You are making his fortune, you have raised his prices fourfold.”
“I’ll take care of that.”
“Why, where are you taking me? Back to him?”