“Exactly, S’Richard; that’s just what it is. But don’t you get out of heart, sir. I was smooth as you once, and now if I goes two days you might grate ginger with me!”
“Well, we will see,” said the young man; “but if you want to—to—”
“Better myself, S’Richard; that’s it!”
“Don’t let another opportunity go.”
“Oh, yes, I shall, S’Richard! You said you’d like to have me, and that’s enough for me! I’d wait for you, sir, if I had to stop till you was a hundred! But, beg pardon, S’Richard, is that there to make a patent mouse-trap?”
“Which?” said the young man angrily.
“That there thing as you’re making, S’Richard.”
“Pooh! what nonsense! Jerry, you are not musical.”
“Well, sir, I ain’t a moosician, as you may say, but I was a dab at the Jew’s-harp once, and I’ve got a very tidy flootina ’cordion now; only I ain’t no time to practise.”
“No, Jerry,” said the young man, thoughtfully, as he laid out his little pieces of mechanism on the table; “this is an attempt to invent a means of producing musical sounds by percussion.”