He took his hat, and walked out to seek Mr. Smithson, an old and stiff dealer in earthenware, who lived within a stone's-throw of the Teapot. The day was fine, and Mr. Smithson was airing his pans and dishes, and setting them along the pavement, like traps for the feet of unwary passengers.
"Good-morning to you," began Jones, in a conciliating tone.
"Good-morning!" replied, or rather, grunted Mr. Smithson, without taking the trouble to look up.
"I have just come round to inquire about a young man—his name is Joseph
Saunders. Do you know him?"
"S'pose I do?" answered Mr. Smithson too cautious to commit himself.
"Well then, s'pose you do—you can tell me something about him, can't you?"
"What for?" drily asked the earthenware dealer.
"What for!" exclaimed Mr. Jones, beginning to lose his temper, "why, because he's taken my front room, and I want to know what sort of a chap he is, and because, too, he has referred me to you—that's what for."
"Well, then," said Mr. Smithson, "I'll just tell you this: first, he'll pay his rent; second, he'll give no trouble; third, that's all."
With which Mr. Smithson, who had for a moment looked up, and paused in his occupation, returned to his earthenware.