“May be good or bad,” sighed the painter, “but a prawn is ever and always—a prawn! Have ye ever tried ’em—fresh boiled ... warm from the pot, sir?”
“Never!”
“Ah,” quoth Mr. Pym, “there is, sir, to your man of delicate perception and fine sentiment, in the strains of music, the glory of dawn, the glow of sunset, the chaste beauty of evening, there is, I say, a tender glamour, a joy inexpressible, but ... prawns ... warm from the pot may reach the soul just as surely though by a different avenue. Perchance to-morrow you may learn this—if you will?”
So saying, the painter laughed suddenly, shook hands and strode away.
“And now, sirs,” sighed Mr. Bunkle, carefully uncocking Mr. Oxham’s pistol, “mindin’ that theer jugged-’are o’ mine as ha’ been a-juggin’ of itself a sight too long, if you’ll gimme your orders an’ lemme go, I’ll be obleeged.”
“Can you give us accommodation here, Mr. Bunkle?”
“Why, sir, that arl depends on how much, what-like and when?”
“Two rooms. Now.”
“Was you a-thinkin’ o’ stayin’ ’ere, sirs? For long?”