“Been having a—?” the cabman finished his sentence by grinning, and giving his arms a pugilistic flourish.
“What’s that got to do with you?” growled Mr Sturt. “What d’ yer come into people’s places like that for?”
“Because people says as they sells the werry best tobacco at threepence a hounce,” said the cabman. “Give’s half-hounce.”
“Go an’ weigh it,” said Mr Sturt.
The woman dropped the piece of rag she held, and passed shrinkingly into the shop, took the already weighed-out tobacco from a jar, and held out her hand for the money.
“Now then,” growled Mr Sturt from the back room, “hand that over here, will yer?”
The cabman walked into the room and laid down the money, slowly emptying the paper afterwards into a pouch, which he took from a side pocket.
“This here’s twenty-seven, ain’t it?” said the cabman then.
“Yes, it is twenty-seven,” cried Mr Sturt—our friend Barney of the steeplechase—and he seemed so much disturbed that he leaped up and backed into a corner of the room. “You ain’t got nothin’ again’ me, come, now.”
“No, I ain’t got nothin’ again’ yer,” said the cabman, quietly, but with his eye twinkling. “Did yer think I was—?”