A Difference of Opinion
It was this that brought about the fight between us, which I think I mentioned before. We had just finished making our first stools, his being three-legged, and he sang a trifle loud because he was finished first, he being always more handy with his fingers than I was, except in delicate work and the making of pottery. He taunted me about my slowness, asking what was the good of bothering about four legs when three would do quite as well, and saying that he supposed I must have one more than he, because he was only the son of a poor blacksmith of Limehouse; and more to the same effect. Now this, I thought, was very unjust, for I had never stood upon any difference in rank there might be between us; nor indeed did Billy as a rule allude to it, much less express any discontentment, but called me "master" very simply and naturally. What came over him this day I know not, but he sat on his three-legged stool with a very gloomy face, grumbling and growling until I could endure it no longer.
"For goodness' sake, Billy," I said, "leave me to my work. Go and get the dinner ready, or something."
"I won't," says he. "Why should I get your dinner? I ain't your servant, though I ain't got a mad uncle what's got more money than wits. Money! what's the good of money when you ain't got no sense for the spending of it? Why, if it hadn't been for your uncle I'd 'a been rich by this time, working for decent wages in London, instead of sweating for nothing."
"You're an ass," said I, as pleasantly as you please.
"I may be an ass," says Billy, "but I'm blowed if I'm a silly ass, and that's what you are."