Bill. Most remarkable 'ungry, Mattie—this werry moment. Odd you should ask now—ain't it?
Mat. You would get plenty to eat if you would work.
Bill. Thank you—I'd rayther not. Them as ain't 'ungry never enj'ys their damaged tarts. If I'm 'appy, vere's the odds? as the cat said to the mouse as wanted to be let off the engagement. Why should I work more'n any other gen'leman?
Mat. A gentleman that don't work is a curse to his neighbours, Bill.
Bill. Bless you, Mattie! I ain't a curse—nohow to nobody. I don't see as you've got any call to say that, Mattie. I don't go fakin' clies, or crackin' cribs—nothin' o' the sort. An' I don't mind doin' of a odd job, if it is a odd one. Don't go for to say that again, Mattie.
Mat. I won't, then, Bill. But just look at yourself!—You're all in rags.
Bill. Rags is the hairier, as the Skye terrier said to the black-an'-tan.—I shouldn't object to a new pair of old trousers, though.
Mat. Why don't you have a pair of real new ones? If you would only sweep a crossing—
Bill. There ain't, a crossin' but what's took. Besides, my legs ain't put together for one place all day long. It ain't to be done, Mattie. They can't do it.
Mat. There's the shoe-black business, then.