“What do you think of that, old lady?” said Sam, opening his little lid to peer down at his wife. “Comfortable?”
“Comfortable—yes,” said Mrs Jenkles, looking up and beaming. “And you said he wouldn’t go.”
“He knows as you’re here,” said Sam; “and that’s his aggrawating nature. He’s a-selling me.”
“Selling you, Sam?”
“Yes; a-making out as I grumbles without cause. Sit fast; I’ll bowl yer up there in no time.”
“No, Sam, don’t—pray, don’t go fast!” said his wife, in alarm.
“You sit still; it’s all right, I tell yer. Good wives is scarce, Sally, so you won’t be spilled.”
Only half convinced, Mrs Jenkles held on very tightly by the sides of the cab, till, well up now in the geography of the place, Sam ran round by the better road, and drew up at B. Sturt’s grocery warehouse.
“No,” said Sam, as Mrs Jenkles made for the shop; “side door, and ring once.”
As he spoke, Barney’s ill-looking face appeared at the door; and as Mrs Jenkles went and rang—