"Call me sair," replied Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino with dignity.
"Call you wot?" cried Bindle indignantly. "Call you wot?"
"Call me sair," repeated the Italian.
"Me call a foreigner 'sir!'" cried Bindle. "Now ain't you the funniest ole 'Uggins."
Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino cast upon Bindle a look of consuming hatred.
"Look 'ere," remarked Bindle cheerfully, "if you goes about a-lookin' like that, you'll spoil the good impression them whiskers make."
Murder flashed in the eyes of the Italian, as he ground out a paralysing oath in his own tongue.
"There's a-goin' to be trouble between me an' ole 'Okey-Pokey. Pleasant sort o' cove to 'ave about the 'ouse."
Customers began to drift in, and soon Bindle was kept busy fetching and carrying for Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino, who by every means in his power strove to give expression to the hatred of Bindle that was burning in his soul.
At the end of the first day,—it was in reality the early hours of the next morning,—as Bindle with Scratcher walked from Napolini's to the Tube, he remarked, "Well, I ain't 'ungry, though I could drink a deal more; still I says nothink about that; but as for tips, well, ole 'Okey-Pokey's pocketed every bloomin' penny. When I asked him to divvy up fair, 'e started that machine-gun in 'is tummy, rolled 'is eyes, an' seemed to be tryin' to tell me wot a great likin' 'e'd taken to me. One o' these days somethink's goin' to 'appen to 'im," added Bindle prophetically. "'E ain't no sport, any'ow."