“Because he was the Prince of Denmark,” said Tony, winking again at his now bosom friend. “But you Methody Quaker dead-alive go-to-meeting sons of Sundayfied slugs crawl about thinking yourselves holier than Victoria, God bless her, even when it’s wood, never having seen society or ever had a drink outside Chipstone.”
The Deacon was roused at last. “Never had a drink outside Chipstone!” His breast heaved with a sinister movement—was it a wheeze of wrath or of laughter? “Oi’ll goo bail my round is bigger nor yourn. There ain’t scarce a barn in East Anglia what don’t know me.”
Tony’s great jaw fell. “A barnstormer! You! Rats! What do you play?”
“It ain’t play—it’s work.”
“Yes, I know—but what’s your repertory?”
“My what?”
“Your pieces.”
“Oi bain’t onny a piece-worker.”
“In what?”
“In what you said. It ain’t always per tail.”