“Confound—” began Tom. “Here, come along, Jessie,” he cried, snatching her arm through his; and the old man stood chuckling to himself as he watched them out through the tunnel, before he made for the door with the red sign, and giving a sharp rap with his stick entered at once, nodding quietly at Mrs Shingle.
“Here, I’ve brought Dick a job,” he said, carrying the old pair of boots to the bench. “He’s to do them directly, and they’re to be sixpence—I won’t pay another penny. Are you listening?”
Mrs Shingle nodded, and went on with her work.
“He’s to put a good big corn on the last of the left-hand foot, and then cut away the leather, well beat a patch and put it on. My left foot hurts me horrid.”
“You ought to have a new pair,” said Mrs Shingle.
“Hey?”
“You ought to have a new pair,” she continued, a trifle more loudly.
“Have a new pair?”
Mrs Shingle nodded.
“Bah! How can I afford a new pair? Times are hard. Ships’ husbands don’t make money like they used. New pair, indeed! They’re good enough for me. Tell him to mend ’em well, and they are to be sixpence, d’yer hear?” Mrs Shingle nodded, with her silk in her mouth, gave it a twang, and went on.