“After all,” said Mr. Tridge, defensively, “it’s as much mine as ’is!”
“Quite,” readily agreed Mr. Sinnett. “Oh, quite!”
“’E tried to serve me a dirty trick,” said Mr. Tridge, placing an argumentative forefinger on Mr. Sinnett’s necktie, “and I served ’im one instead. See? That’s fair, ain’t it?”
“Certainly,” acquiesced Mr. Sinnett, with a straining quality of helpfulness underlying his tone. “Fair is fair, all the world over, of course!”
“’Course it is. And, mind you, I’m hobstinit. If ’e’d come to me, fair and reasonable, in the first place— You see what I mean? But ’e didn’t. Same as them nigger chaps what ’ave follered me about from time to time, wanting to buy it back. I told ’em once I wouldn’t sell it, and what I says I sticks to. See?”
“Clear as clear. When your mind’s made up, it’s made up.”
“That’s me,” accepted Mr. Tridge, complacently. “Follered me all over the place, they ’ave and hoffered me any amount of money for it. But I ain’t a wobbler. What I says I sticks to. See? Let’s ’ave another!”
“Yes, let’s,” agreed Mr. Sinnett, eagerly.
“Tried to steal it off me, them niggers ’ave,” said Mr. Tridge, disdainfully, after the rites consequent on a further libation had been observed. “But I’m a match for them any day. And they talks about sticking me next time they come across me. Let ’em try that on, that’s all!”
“But why do you think they are so anxious to get it back? What do they want to—”