"Ah well, it shook me—and I'm used to windictiveness. A brick now," he mused, his eyes wandering again, "a brick I could ha' took kinder, bricks an' sich I'm prepared for, but coping-stones—Lord love me!"
"But a brick would have killed you just the same—"
"Killed me? A brick? Oh no, sir!"
"But, if it had hit you on the head—"
"On the 'at sir, the 'at—or as you might say—the castor—this, sir," said Mr. Shrig; and glancing furtively up and down the gloomy alley he took off the broad-brimmed hat; "just run your ogles over this 'ere castor o' mine, an' you'll understand, perhaps."
"It's very heavy," said Barnabas, as he took the hat.
"Ah, it is a bit 'eavyish, sir. Peep inside of it."
"Why," exclaimed Barnabas, "it's lined with—"
"Iron, sir. My own inwention ag'in windictiveness in the shape o' bricks an' bludgeons, an' werry useful an comfortin' I've found it. But if they're going to begin on me vith coping-stones,—v'y Lord!" And Mr. Shrig sighed his gentle sigh, and rubbed his placid brow, and once more covered it with the "inwention."
"And now sir, you've got a pair o' good, long legs—can ye use 'em?"