“Books?” said the other. “Yes, books. The old buffer’s got his house chock-full of ’em from top to bottom, I should say. You’ll see when we get in; he’ll ask us to carry ’em downstairs.”
“All right, mate; I don’t mind if its anywheres near the beer cellar.”
“Well, it ain’t, Tom, and so I tell you. I’ve delivered boxes o’ books to him for years now, and I never see a glass o’ ale yet.”
“Stingy old hunks! I say, we ain’t ’bliged to carry ’em farther then the front door. That’s delivering.”
“Yes, that’s delivering, mate, but you’re allus in such a hurry. I was going to say you get no beer, but he’ll be as civil as treacle, and stand rubbing his hands and telling yer to mind and not break the glass in the book-cases as you passes; and when you’ve done he twinkles at you through them Chinee-looking specs of his, and crooks his finger, and beckons you to follow him into the front room, as is full of books. Then he brings out a little glass and a bottle of the most heavenly old sperrets you ever tasted. Tlat! I can taste it yet. Talk about cordial—why, it’s enough to make you say you’ll never have a glass in a pub. again.”
“Well, lay hold,” said Tom, sharply; “look alive! Can’t you see the gentleman’s a-waiting?”
The head van-man chuckled, and together they lifted in chest Number 1, the professor smiling and looking deeply interested.
“On the mat, if you please,” he said, “and when you have carried in the other, I should be very much obliged if you would take them both downstairs, where I can open them without making a mess.”
“Suttunly, sir,” said Tom, and they set down Number 1 and went after Number 2, upon which the boy sat, drumming the side with his heels.
“Right, Tommy?”