“It ain’t broke,” said the boy.
“What isn’t broke, sir?” said the old man, humbly.
That ‘sir’ was like so much nerve to one who did not need it; and, turning sharply to the old man, he gave another glance at the shabby bag.
“Then what do you want to come a banging at the door with your old umbrelly for?”
“I didn’t see the bell, sir,” said the old man, humbly. “Is—is your master in?”
“Got anything to sell?” said the boy, sharply.
“To sell, sir? Yes; a good deal. The market’s been very bad lately. Is your master, Mr Ross, in?”
“No, he ain’t,” said the boy, sharply. “Don’t want any. Take your bag somewhere else. We gets ours at the stationer’s.”
The old man stood aghast, for the boy gave his bag a kick and shut the door to sharply, without another word.
“He’s a quick, sharp boy,” said the old man; “very impudent though. A regular London boy; and Luke’s out. Well, well, well, I’ve come a long way to see him, and I can wait,” and without another word, the old man seated himself patiently at the foot of the next flight of stairs, placing his bag beside him, and his green umbrella across his knees.