“And isn’t that becase he’s so bowld a boy?” replied she. “He never complains, becase he knows it would hurt me; but is that any raison I shouldn’t blisther him when he’s ill? And didn’t I know he was ill when he could only spake like a choking dog, and couldn’t for the life ov him take a cup of tay or ate a bit ov bread?”
And taking up her pitcher, she hurried away, leaving me as much in the dark as ever on this great subject, destined to become so much greater before even that day was done, but not by any exertions of mine, for as yet I could see nothing in it beyond the fact that there was some incident required to be known to bring out the fitness of things. Nor was it long before I got satisfaction. The day was a strolling one with me, more a look-out for “old legs” than a pursuit after new ones, and for some reason which I don’t now recollect, I was in Hanover Street, along which I had got (it was now dark) a short way when I observed a sweep coming along with a jolly leg of mutton in his hand. We are sometimes blamed for being somewhat curious in our inquiries into the nature of carried parcels, but here there was so much of the real unfitness of things that I might, I thought, be justified in my curiosity—all the more, too, when I discovered that the proprietor or carrier was my friend of the sore throat.
“Where got you the leg of mutton, Bill?” inquired I, as I stood before him, and stopped his quick pace, intended to be much quicker the moment he saw me.
“The leg of mutton?” replied he, taken aback.
“Yes,” said I, “just the leg of mutton. It is so seldom you have a thing of that kind about you that I feel curious to know.”
“You might as well ask that gentleman where he got his umbrella or his coat,” was the cool reply.
“Not just the same,” said I; “but I do not choose to point out the difference. Where got you it?”
“Bought it to be sure, and that’s enough for you.”
“Quite enough,” said I, “if you did buy it, and I confess you have a good taste. A better leg I haven’t seen for a long time. An ‘old leg’ too, and just kept long enough to be tender. Who’s your butcher?”
“What’s that to you?”