“I say, how’s Peter?”
“How’s Peter, sir?”
“Don’t pretend to be stupid, boy, when you’re as sharp as a needle,” he cried, tapping the desk angrily with his snuff-box. “Didn’t you say you knew my brother Peter?”
“Oh yes, sir! he was very kind to me, but I haven’t seen him for some weeks. He was quite well then.”
“Humph! look old?”
“He looks very much like you, sir.”
“Then he does look old. We’re very fond of one another, boy, but we; always quarrel; so we never meet. ‘And your petitioner furthermore sayeth—’”
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
“‘And your petitioner furthermore sayeth’—get on, boy: go on.”
I dashed at the manuscript again, for he had resumed his work, and read on to the end, for he made no further inquiries about his brother.