“I can’t see why you be so anxious to know all about their goings on,” said Mr. Thomas Dibble, in one of their once-a-week perambulations.
“Well, never mind, old boy,” said Paul; “you and I are good friends and always will be. Why cannot we have our little confidences like other people?”
“No reason at all,” said Dibble, looking round at a baked-potato stove.
“Have a potato?” said Paul, stopping his friend forcibly as they were turning into Piccadilly.
Mr. Dibble stared at him to see if he were in earnest.
“All right, old boy; I know you like them; have one, don’t mind me.”
Dibble instantly complied with Paul’s request, and was soon engaged in devouring the mealy esculent.
In a few minutes he said, as well as he could speak with a mouthful of the baked temptation,—
“That be kind of you now, Master Paul, very; you knows I likes taters,—we’ve all our likes and dislikes, eh, Mister Somerton? My weakness is Mrs. Dibble and baked pertaters!”
“And pudding, old Dib—now confess.”