“I’m very sorry to hear it, Mr Jabez,” I said.
“I’m sorry to feel it,” said Mr Jabez, with a fig in one hand and a piece of candied peel in the other. “Come, you don’t eat. By Jingo, there’s Grimstone,” he cried, as a step was heard upon the stairs; and in his excitement and dread of being seen engaged in eating sweets, he stuffed a fig into one breeches-pocket, some peel into the other, and snatched up his snuff-box, while I felt terribly discomposed at the idea of meeting my old tyrant.
“Is it Mr Grimstone?” I faltered.
“Yes, but you don’t eat. Take another fig,” cried Mr Jabez, as, without knocking, Mr Grimstone entered the room.
“Hallo,” he said, without taking off his hat, “what the deuce are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to see Mr Jabez, Mr Grimstone,” I replied.
“Oh, have you? So have I. How long are you going to stop?”
“Oh, hours yet,” said Mr Jabez. “Sit down, Grim. He doesn’t matter; speak out. He doesn’t belong to the shop now. Well: what news?”
“Bad!” said Mr Grimstone, throwing himself into a chair. “Here, boy, take my hat.”
I took it quite obediently, and resumed my seat, while Mr Grimstone wiped his bald head with a bright orange handkerchief.