“That’s just what I’m bothered if I can remember,” said the chandler at last. “It’s on the tip of my tongue too ... but wait ... yes, no ... yes, I’ve got it ... he asks ... no, that’s wrong, he doesn’t ask anything, we ask him.... Now what the juice is it we do ask him?... Don’t say anything, because I’ll remember in a minute.... I’m bound to remember.... You see, it’s such a long time since I played this game that some of the rules....”
“Look here,” Mr. Watcher’s irate voice growled through the folds of the handkerchief, “if you think I’m going to stand here wrapped up like a Stilton cheese while you remember what game you played with Nore in the Ark, you’re blooming well mistaken. And that’s that.”
“If you’d only have a morsel of patience, Mr. Watcher. I can’t remember the whole of a big game all at once,” protested the chandler, still clinging desperately to Mrs. Pottage’s hand. “But I will remember it. It’s on the tip of my tongue, I tell you.”
“Well, what’s on the tip of my tongue to tell you,” shouted Mr. Watcher, “I wouldn’t like to tell anybody, not in front of ladies.” With which he pulled down the handkerchief round his neck and stood glaring at the other players with the expression of a fierce cowboy.
Mr. Breadcutt in order to quiet the coal-merchant proposed as a game familiar to everybody blind man’s buff.
“Not me you don’t blindfold again,” said Mr. Watcher. “And if Mr. Hopkins starts in to try I’ll blindfold him without a handkerchief.”
“Well, what about a snack of supper?” suggested the hostess, who felt that the situation required a diversion.
And her supper was such a success that before it was over the two rivals were confiding in each other various ways of getting the better of their common enemy, the purchaser.
When it was time to adjourn again to the parlour, Bram and Nancy begged to be excused from enjoying themselves any longer in Mrs. Pottage’s company in view of the hard day before them at the Theatre Royal.
“You’ve given us such a jolly Christmas, dear Mrs. Pottage,” said Bram.