“What’s that to do wi’ it? Just as if I couldn’t stand cold. Deal better than you can heat.”
“Then I shall tell her you are coming, Rasp. What would you like for dinner?”
“Oh, anything’ll do for the likes o’ me. I ain’t particular.”
“No, but you may as well have what you like for dinner.”
“Oh, I ain’t particular. Have just what you like. But if there was a morsel o’ tripe on the way I might pick a bit.”
“Good!” said the other, smiling, “you shall have some tripe for dinner for one thing.”
“Don’t you get letting it be got o’ purpose for me. Anything’ll do for me—a bit o’ sooetty pudden, for instance.”
“All right, Rasp. Tripe and suet pudding on Sunday week.”
“If ever there was,” said Rasp, thoughtfully, as he made an offer to get at the poker, “a woman as was made to be a beautiful angel, and didn’t turn out to be one because they forgot her wings, that’s your missus, Master Dutch.”
“Thank you, Rasp, old fellow, thank you,” said the young man, smiling; and his eyes brightened as he listened to this homely praise of the woman he worshipped.