"By gorra, he'll do!" exclaimed the little man energetically. "It's a bargain—I'm his man."
"Ay, but you mayn't answer, brother; he mayn't take you," observed Tom.
"Wait a bit—jist wait a bit, till he sees me," replied he of the blue coat.
"Ay, wait a bit," persevered the groom, coolly—"wait a bit, and when he does see you, it strikes me wery possible he mayn't like your cut."
"Not like my cut!" exclaimed the little man, as soon as he had recovered breath; for the bare supposition of such an occurrence involved in his opinion so utter and astounding a contradiction of all the laws by which human antipathies and affections are supposed to be regulated, that he felt for a moment as if his whole previous existence had been a dream and an illusion. "Not like my cut!"
"No," rejoined the groom, with perfect imperturbability.
The little man deigned no other reply than that conveyed in a glance of the most inexpressible contempt, which, having wandered over the person and accoutrements of the unconscious Tom, at length settled upon his own lower extremities, where it gradually softened into a gaze of melancholy complacency, while he muttered, with a pitying smile, "Not like my cut—not like it!" and then, turning majestically towards the groom, he observed, with laconic dignity,—
"I humbly consave the gintleman has an eye in his head."
This rebuke had hardly been administered when the subject of their conference in person passed from the inn into the street.
"There he goes," observed Tom.