“You’ve got it right, guv’nor.”
“So! Zen I ask, is Mr. Thomas Dorrell at home?”
“Nice day, guv’nor.”
“I zank you, yes, it is not bad. Mr. Thomas Dorrell——”
“No; my name’s Timothy Ball—T. B. on my collars.”
“I zank you. Mr. Thomas Dorrell——”
“This ’ere place belongs to Mr. John Greatorex, Esquire, J.P., and he ain’t at home, bein’ engaged in trying a bad case of stealin’ lamb and mint-sauce not a many miles from ’ere.”
“My goot friend, I do not mind; I like it. I come not to see Mr. Greatorex, I come to see Mr. Thomas Dorrell——”
“Now, look ’ere, guv’nor, we’ve had chaps ’ere before with cheap watches and dear books and thingummies of all sorts, and I tell you straight, we don’t encourage ’em; in fact, I’ve got strict orders from Mr. Greatorex, J.P., to set the dog on any such that won’t take no for an answer.”
“My goot friend, you mistake. Vizout doubt I carry, some days, books, editions de luxe, and vatches and ozer zinks, but to-day—no, no. Look, here is my carte——”