Mr John Screwby and he had encountered more than once—the former gentleman making a practice of insulting the dealer; and, as if out of revenge for his non-success in obtaining the two hundred pounds reward,—staring up at the front of the house, or making believe, with a grin, to peer down into the cellar,—movements which made D. Wragg, under the idea that he was gnashing his teeth like an ordinary mortal, snap and snarl like a flea-bitten terrier.
Upon this day, it was fated that, as soon as Monsieur Canau was out of sight, Mr John Screwby should appear loafing along the opposite side of the road, so far from upright in his conduct, that he rubbed his right shoulder here and there against wall and window-frame as he passed. His cap was drawn down over his ears, a piece of straw in his mouth, and his hands right above the wrists in his pockets, and their owner staring heavily here and there after something fresh, till he came in sight of D. Wragg. Now he grinned spitefully, and, walking slowly on, stopped at last opposite the dealer’s house, to stare heavily up at the attic windows, shading his eyes, leaning a little on this side and a little on that, as if eagerly searching for something to be seen. Then, according to custom, he crossed the road to gaze for a moment through the cellar-grating, holding one hand to his ear as if listening attentively; and then fixing his eyes upon the dirty sash of the window seen through the grating, he began to walk slowly backwards and forwards, totally ignoring the presence of D. Wragg the while.
“There’ll be a row directly, Mr Jack Screwby,” said the dealer, with a sharp snarl, as he stood watching his enemy’s actions.
Mr Screwby took not the slightest notice of the speaker, only stopped short as if he had caught a glimpse of something.
“I wonder wot they’ve done with the pore chap!” he said at last, in quite a loud voice. “I shouldn’t be a bit s’prised if they’ve berried ’im in the kitchin.”
“If I could have my way with you, young fellow, I’d serve you out for this!” said D. Wragg, shaking his fist, to the great amusement of a small crowd fast collecting.
“What ’ud you do with me, eh?” said Screwby, with a grin. “Burke me, like the pore chap as come arter his dorg, eh?”
“You wouldn’t dare to talk like that there, Jack Screwby, if I was a man of your own size and age,” said D. Wragg, viciously.
“P’raps I should—p’raps I shouldn’t,” sneered Screwby. “But how about the pore young man?”
D. Wragg made a terrier-like movement, as if about to rush at a bull-dog, to the great delight of the crowd, especially as at that moment the thick new boot, freshly completed by Mr Purkis, caught in the grating, and D. Wragg nearly fell.