“Eighteen pence,” said I; “all I have in the world.”
“I have been in the Big City, too,” said Mr. Petulengro; “but I have not written lils—I have fought in the ring—I have fifty pounds in my pocket—I have much more in the world. Brother, there is considerable difference between us.”
“I would rather be the lil-writer, after all,” said the tall, handsome, black man; “indeed, I would wish for nothing better.”
“Why so?” said Mr. Petulengro.
“Because they have so much to say for themselves,” said the black man, “even when dead and gone. When they are laid in the churchyard, it is their own fault if people a’n’t talking of them. Who will know, after I am dead, or bitchadey pawdel, that I was once the beauty of the world, or that you, Jasper, were—”
“The best man in England of my inches. That’s true, Tawno—however, here’s our brother will perhaps let the world know something about us.”
“Not he,” said the other, with a sigh; “he’ll have quite enough to do in writing his own lils, and telling the world how handsome and clever he was; and who can blame him? Not I. If I could write lils, every word should be about myself and my own tacho Rommanis—my own lawful wedded wife, which is the same thing. I tell you what, brother, I once heard a wise man say in Brummagem, that ‘there is nothing like blowing one’s own horn,’ which I conceive to be much the same thing as writing one’s own lil.”
After a little more conversation, Mr. Petulengro arose, and motioned me to follow him. “Only eighteen pence in the world, brother!” said he, as we walked together.
“Nothing more, I assure you. How came you to ask me how much money I had?”
“Because there was something in your look, brother, something very much resembling that which a person showeth who does not carry much money in his pocket. I was looking at my own face this morning in my wife’s looking-glass—I did not look as you do, brother.”