"Then economic principles is a fool and a humbug," returned the lad, sulkily: "that's all I can say about the matter."
"Oh! that's it—is it?" cried Banks, assuming a threatening attitude.
"Yes—with a wengeance," added his son.
"No—that's the wengeance," said Mr. Banks, coolly, as he dealt his heir a tremendous box on the ear, which forced the young man nearly over the plank that had caused the dispute; but as the lad was not quite floored, his father bestowed on him a kick which, speedily succeeding the slap, levelled the youthful coffin-maker altogether.
"Brayvo!" shouted the idlers at the door.
The discomfited son of Mr. Banks got up, retreated to the farther end of the shop, and was about to discharge a volley of insolence at his father when a gentleman and lady suddenly appeared on the threshold of the shop.
"Ah! Miss Wilmot," exclaimed Mr. Banks: "punctual to the time! Your most obedient, sir," he added, turning towards Kate's companion, whom he did not know personally, but who was really Richard Markham. "Walk in, Miss—walk in, sir."
Then, without farther ceremony, the undertaker banged the door violently in the faces of the loungers at the shop-entrance.
"Please to come this way," he said, again turning to his visitors. "Take care of that lid, Miss; it'll soon cover a blessed defunct as a widder and seven small childern is now a-weeping for. I'm doing it cheap for 'em, poor things—eighteen-pence under the reg'lar charge, 'cause they had to sell their bed to pay for it—in adwance. This way, sir: mind them trestles. Ah! a many coffins has stood on 'em—all made on the newest and most economic principles; for my maxim is that a cheap and good undertaker is a real blessin' to society—a perfect god-send in this world of wanity and wexation. What would the poor sinful wessels in this neighbourhood do without me?—what indeed?"