"That he be," said the chorus.
Mr. Smith was informed that Mr. Tinman would probably end by buying up half the town.
"Then," said Mr. Smith, "he can afford to pay half the money for that glass, and pay he shall."
A serious view of the recent catastrophe was presented by his declaration.
In the midst of a colloquy regarding the cost of the glass, during which it began to be seen by Mr. Tinman's townsmen that there was laughing- stuff for a year or so in the scene witnessed by Crummins, if they postponed a bit their right to the laugh and took it in doses, Annette induced her father to signal to Crickledon his readiness to go and see the lodgings. No sooner had he done it than he said, "What on earth made us wait all this time here? I'm hungry, my dear; I want supper."
"That is because you have had a disappointment. I know you, papa," said
Annette.
"Yes, it's rather a damper about old Mart Tinman," her father assented. "Or else I have n't recovered the shock of smashing that glass, and visit it on him. But, upon my honour, he's my only friend in England, I have n't a single relative that I know of, and to come and find your only friend making a donkey of himself, is enough to make a man think of eating and drinking."
Annette murmured reproachfully: "We can hardly say he is our only friend in England, papa, can we?"
"Do you mean that young fellow? You'll take my appetite away if you talk of him. He's a stranger. I don't believe he's worth a penny. He owns he's what he calls a journalist."
These latter remarks were hurriedly exchanged at the threshold of
Crickledon's house.