“I don’t want no fireman’s places,” growled Rasp. “How’d the work go on here wi’out me? Old, eh? Disagreeable, eh! Sixty ain’t so old, nayther; and just you wear diving soots for forty year, and get your head blown full o’ wind till you’re ’most ready to choke, and be always going down, and risking your blessed life, and see if you wouldn’t soon be disagreeable.”
“Well, Rasp, I’ve been down pretty frequently, and in as risky places as most men of my age, and it hasn’t made me such an old crab.”
“What, you? Bah! Nothing puts you out—nothing makes you cross ’cept too much fire, and you do get waxey over that. But you try it for forty year—forty year, you know, and just see what you’re like then, Mr Pug.”
“Confound it all, Rasp,” cried the younger man, “that’s the third time in the last ten minutes that you’ve called me Pug. My name is Pugh—PUGH—Pugh.”
“’Taint,” said the old fellow, roughly, “I ain’t lived sixty year in the world, and don’t know how to spell. PEW spells pew, and PUGH spells pug, with the H at the end and wi’out it, so you needn’t tell me.”
“You obstinate old crab,” said the other, good-humouredly, as he stopped him from making another dash at the poker. “There, be off, I’m very busy.”
“You allus are busy,” growled the old fellow; “you’ll get your brains all in a muddle wi’ your figuring and drawing them new dodges and plans. No one thinks the better o’ you, no matter how hard you works. It’s my opinion, Mr Dutch—there, will that suit yer, as you don’t like to be called Mr Pug?”
“There, call me what you like, Rasp, you’re a good, old fellow, and I shall never forget what you have done for me.”
“Bah! Don’t talk stuff,” cried the old fellow, snappishly.
“Stuff, eh?” said the other, laughing, as he took up his compasses, and resumed his seat. “Leave—that—fire—alone!” he cried, seizing a heavy ruler, and shaking it menacingly as the old man made once more for the poker. “And now, hark here—Mrs Pugh says you are to come out to the cottage on Sunday week to dinner, and spend the day.”