"It's the same as all the rest; you see——"
Here the mimic broke in with a bright, congenial joke.
"Love how much?" cried he, winking with his whole heavy face. "I don't, chaps, do you?"
The sally was greeted with a roar, in which the musician joined timidly, while the man on the sofa smiled faintly without looking up from his paper.
"Never mind him," said the red-bearded man, who was for keeping up the fun as long as possible; "he's too witty to live. What did you say the price was?"
"Most of the songs are half a crown."
"Come, I say, that's a stiffish price, isn't it?"
"Plucky stiff for fleas!" exclaimed the wit.
The musician flushed, but tossed back his head of hair, and held out his hand for the song.
"I can't help it, gentlemen. I can't afford to charge less. Every one of these songs has been sent out from Home, and I get them from a man in Melbourne, who makes me pay for them. You're five hundred miles up country, where you can't expect town prices."