“Um!” said Canau, exhaling a thin cloud of smoke; “and about—about the young man?”
“Well,” said D. Wragg, looking sidewise out of his little eyes, “perhaps I worn’t quite square over that; for you see the young chap was all on the stare about little Pellet; and as he seemed ready to buy half the shop if she was likely to be here, I did think we might as well make a few pounds extry; for times is werry hard, you know, Mr Canau, and expenses is werry great: things runs up ’orrid.”
Canau smoked fiercely, his yellow forehead growing knit and angry-looking; but he did not speak.
“She didn’t like it, though,” continued D. Wragg; “and don’t you make no mistake: I was sorry for it afterwards, and called myself a bumble-footed old beast when I see her a cryin’. But don’t you make no mistake; as soon as I see she didn’t like it, why, bless her little heart, I says, ‘Don’t you go in the shop no more than you like, my pet,’ I says; and, bless her, she said she done it for poor Janet’s sake.”
D. Wragg seemed to be so affected by his recollections that he drew out a pocket-handkerchief and removed a faint drop of moisture from the corner of one eye, and another from the right side of his nose with the stem of his pipe, Canau nodding satisfaction the while many times over—seeming, too, more tranquil of spirit, for the puffs of smoke from his cigarette were evolved far more slowly, and went curling gently upwards towards the ceiling of the shop.
“I like natur, Mr Canau,” said D. Wragg, “and being a spoiled child of natur myself, I always did like natur. That little Pellet’s like, as you may say, natur’s cream, all served up together. Dorgs is natur, and all these here’s natur.”
D. Wragg paused, inserted his left thumb in the armhole of his vest, and with the other hand gracefully waved round the stem of his pipe, indicating in turn the caged prisoners around.
“I loved natur, Mr Canau, when I was a boy, and went birds’-nestin’ and ketchin’ frogs instead of goin’ to school, and took to the serciety of bird-ketchers, which is men of nat’ral habits, as is in some things a pleasure to know. It was my love of natur, Mr Canau, as fust set me beginning trade—selling ’edge-hogs and greenfinches and nesties of young birds in the streets; and it was natur as made me to prosper and get into this here large way of business. I’m a London man bred and born, though justice worn’t done me in either case—for I’m wideawake to what’s wrong with me; but I’ll back myself in nat’ral history to tell anything you like, from a ork down to a tom-tit, and t’other way from a mouse up to a helephant—if so be as they’re all English. For, you see, I never went travelling, only once, when I went round for a whole year with Wombwell’s nadgery, feeding the wild beasties, and helping to put the carrywans straight,—and all from a love of natur, Mr Canau, though you did get rather more natur there than you liked, ’specially as regards smells, and bein’ kep’ awake of a night by the hyenas a laughin’, or them great furrin cats letting go like hooray—let alone the other things. And that was why I left it and took to dorgs,—selling washed pups at carriage-doors, warranted never to get no bigger. And look here,” he continued, with a grin; “if ever you should take to that there trade, I’ll put you up to a breed as the pups is the werry smallest in natur, and washes the whitest in natur; but as for the size they grows up to in a swell’s house, where they’re fed up like bloated haristocrats, with their chicking and weal cutlet, and all that sorter thing, and the colour they gets to—my!”
Mr D. Wragg chuckled loudly as he described this freak of “natur;” but it was observable that the puffs of smoke from Canau’s cigarette came swiftly, as he still watched the dealer with a strange indescribable expression.
“I love natur, Mr Canau; and that’s how it is I always did love babies and little gals, for they is natur, the prettiest bits of all. I can always kiss them little soft bits of natur, babies—if so be as they’re clean, but to be dirty down here in Decadia, ’tis their natur to. But you see they ain’t werry fond o’ being kissed by me, not being no ways handsome. Natur never took no pains with me when she made me, you know. I don’t believe as I were ever finished, and ’cordingly I wear this thick boot. But this here set out’s quite upset me, Mr Canau, and I don’t think I shall have any more to do with dorgs. I’ll keep to birds only; for just fancy having the police in your house, and wanting to make out as you’ve got a young fellow burked away somewhere, and frightening them poor girls a’most to death! You know it’s nothing but that upset as has made poor Mother Winks slip out to get that ginger-beer bottle of her’s filled so many times. She don’t generally do more in that way than we do with our ’bacco.”