“Going abroad, Tom.”
“So am I, Mas’r Harry.”
“You, Tom?”
“Sure I am, Mas’r Harry, if you are,” said Tom; and then and there he pulled off his great, greasy leather apron and soapy white slop, and fetched his shiny jacket out of the boiling-house. “I’m ready, Mas’r Harry,” he exclaimed, as he fought hard to get one arm properly into his sleeve, but had to try again and again, because the button was off the wristband of his shirt, and the sleeve kept slipping up to his shoulder, necessitating a fresh attempt.
I burst out laughing at him, as I saw the earnest way in which he took my announcement; but the more I laughed the more solid Tom became, as he worked his body into his old coat, and then proceeded to button it right up to the chin, slapping himself several times upon the chest to settle a wrinkle here and there, and ending by spitting in his hands, and looking at me as much as to say, “Where’s boxes, Mas’r Harry? Let’s be off.”
“Watcher larfin’ at, Mas’r Harry?” he said at last.
“At you, Tom,” I replied.
“All right, Mas’r Harry,” he replied in the most philosophical way, “larfin’ don’t cost nothing, and it’s very pleasant, and it don’t matter when it’s them as you know; but when it comes to somebody you don’t know, why then it riles.”
I turned serious on the instant.
“Do you know what you are talking about, Tom?” I said.