“A guinea?” contemptuously repeated the Turk, “and what do you suppose a guinea will do?”
“What? Why, keep a whole family handsome a week;—never spend so much myself; no, nor half neither.”
“Why then, how the devil do you live? Do you beg?”
“Beg? Who should I beg of? You?—Got anything to give? Are warm?”
“Take the trouble to speak more respectfully, sir!” said the Turk, haughtily; “I see you are some low fellow, and I shall not put up with your impudence.”
“Shall, shall! I say!” answered the chimneysweeper, sturdily; “Hark'ee, my duck,” chucking Cecilia under the chin, “don't be cajoled, nick that spark! never mind gold trappings; none of his own; all a take-in; hired for eighteenpence; not worth a groat. Never set your heart on a fine outside, nothing within. Bristol stones won't buy stock: only wants to chouse you.”
“What do you mean by that, you little old scrub!” cried the imperious Turk; “would you provoke me to soil my fingers by pulling that beastly snub nose?” For Mr Briggs had saved himself any actual mask, by merely blacking his face with soot.
“Beastly snub nose!” sputtered out the chimneysweeper in much wrath, “good nose enough; don't want a better; good as another man's. Where's the harm on't?”
“How could this blackguard get in?” cried the Turk, “I believe he's a mere common chimneysweeper out of the streets, for he's all over dirt and filth. I never saw such a dress at a masquerade before in my life.”
“All the better,” returned the other; “would not change. What do think it cost?”