“Thought we were going to be sold up, eh, Hopper, old man?” said Dick, taking down a violin that hung by the eight-day clock.
“Hey?”
“Thought we were going to be sold up, eh? I should have taken care of your old bass,” said Dick, with a nod and a smile. “It should not have come to harm, Hopper, anyhow. Now, missus, and you, Jessie, give us a cup of tea, with srimps and creases, and a nice bit of supper about eight. We’ll have a happy day in the old house for the last one.”
“Last one, Dick!”
“Yes, mother, the last one. I shall move into better premises to-morrow.”
“Dick dear,” cried Mrs Shingle imploringly—while Hopper seemed to be busying himself over the strings of the ’cello—“what does all this mean? What are you going to do?”
“Do!” said Dick, making his violin chirrup: “throw away wax-end and leather. They say, let the shoemaker stick to his last; but I’ve stuck to it too long. Mother, I’m going to make a fortune.”
“But how, Dick—how?”
“Wait and see.”
“You’ll tell me what you are going to do?” said Mrs Shingle, half angrily.