“To be sure I do. You said they was pastry.”
“Paste, man, paste.”
Fisherman Dick had a thought flash into his head, and he gave his knee such a tremendous slap that the child began to cry.
“Here, missus, lay holt o’ the little un,” he cried, passing it to her, as she gave her hands a rub on her apron—almost pitching it as if it had been a little brandy keg. “Here, I know, gentlemen,” he continued, “them jools has turned out to be real, and you only give ten shillings.”
“All they were worth, man. No; they’ve turned out to be what I told you—sham.”
“Oh!” said Fisherman Dick in a tone of disappointment. “Hear that, missus? Only sham.”
“But we want to hear how you found them.”
“How I foun’ ’em? Well, you’ve got ’em; that’s enough for you, arn’t it?” he grumbled.
“No. You must speak out—to us mind—and let us know—in confidence—all about it.”
“I don’t know nothing about ’em at all. I forgets.”