“I say,” said Leslie, “talking of fakements—in this business of ours I hope we’ll steer clear of all that.”
“In this beesiness of oors,” said Mac, “I thought you distinctly understood my friend Danjuro will be the nominal head of the firrm—we are but the sleeping pairtners.”
Mac’s Scotch bubbled in him when he grew excited, or when he forgot himself. Ordinarily he talked pretty ordinary English, but when the stopper was off the Scotch came out, and you could tell by the pronunciation of the word “money” whether he was mentioning the article casually or deep in a deal.
“Well,” said Leslie, “I don’t want my dreams troubled by visions of Danjuro swindling unfortunate tourists; you say we’re to export things, but I don’t want to have him roping in people, selling them five-shilling pagodas at five pounds a-piece.”
Mac sighed as if with regret at the impossibility of such a delightful deal as that.
“It’s rather jolly going into business,” continued Leslie, dreamily gazing at the azaleas. “Only crime I’ve never committed, except murder and a few others. Good God! when I started in life I never thought I’d end my days peddling paper lanterns, and cheating people into buying penny-a-dozen kakemonos for a shilling a-piece. Don’t talk to me; all trade is cheating.”
“You should have known Macbean,” said M’Gourley, who had also taken off his boots and stockings and was bathing his broad splay feet in the pretty little torrent.
“Who was he?”
“Forty year ago I was his ’prentice. Mummies, and idols, and pagods, and scarabeuses was the output of the firm, and Icknield Street, Birmingham, its habitation.”
“Idols?”