“What’s in the big box?” inquired the Rhymester.
“A dittig bachede,” replied A. Fish, Esq., who had been busily engaged in opening it.
“A what?” exclaimed the others.
“A dittig bachede for dittig socks,” repeated A. Fish, Esq.
“Oh yes, of course!” explained the Doctor-in-Law, “a knitting machine. I was persuaded to buy it on the understanding that I was to have constant work all the year round, and be paid so much per pair for knitting socks with it. It’s a most interesting and amusing occupation, and, I’ll tell you what, I don’t mind letting any one of you use the machine for sixpence an hour, if you find your own worsted and give me the socks when they are finished. There now! nothing could be fairer than that, could it?”
the “dittig bachede”
And positively A. Fish, Esq., was so infatuated with the charms of the “dittig bachede,” as he called it, that he actually agreed to these terms, and sent out for some worsted, and commenced “dittig” with great enthusiasm. The Doctor-in-Law then set the Rhymester to work, addressing the envelopes on the understanding that he was to share the sixpence per thousand to be paid for them. And, having bothered the Wallypug and myself into buying a pencil-case and a knife each, in order to get rid of him, he started off to the kitchen to see if he could do any business with Mrs. Putchy in the knife-polish or black-lead line.
His Majesty and myself were just saying what an extraordinary little man he was, when he burst in upon us again.
“Heard the news?” he inquired, his face beaming with importance.