“Business!” he repeated, in a whisper, and solemnly put his finger to his lips. “Norraword!” he urged warningly, and immediately added in the loudest, boastfullest accents: “I’ve had a good day to-day. Bought a rare lot of stuff!”
He waited indecisively a little time, and then, selecting the chair adjacent to Mr. Lane’s, sat down on it with some abruptness of impact.
“Wanter buy a nice set of fire-irons?” he inquired, winningly. “Beautiful set! Bargain!”
Mr. Lane replied to the effect that he was adequately furnished with fire-irons.
“Don’t blame you, either!” hazily commented Mr. Dobb, and was silent for a brief space.
“Funny thing about it is,” he remarked next, opening one eye to stare at Mr. Lane challengingly, “’alf the stuff come from this town to start with. Now, ain’t that a rum ’un, eh?”
“I dare say,” politely ceded Mr. Lane.
“Of course it is!” insisted Mr. Dobb, with truculence. “Me going all the way out there to buy stuff what ’ad come—what ’ad come from Shore’aven to start with! It’s a—a cohincydence, that’s what it is! Going miles and miles to buy stuff what I could ’ave bought at old Pash’s sale, if only I’d been there!”
“Whose sale did you say?” quickly asked the other.
“Never you mind ’oose sale!” returned. Mr. Dobb, with reserve. “But, ’oosever it was, the stuff I bought to-day come from it! See? So don’t go a-contradicting of me!”