“I makes them all myself; I am poor man, but artist.”
“Ah! and how do you sell them?” asked Saurin.
“Sheap, oh mosh too sheap; what you like to give.”
“Will you take a shilling for the whole lot?”
“Oh! young gentleman, you make fun, you joke. Ha, ha! One shilling for the beautiful little statues! What joke!”
“Too much, is it? I thought so; not but what they would make capital cockshies.”
A large pile of flints, hammered into a convenient size and form for missiles, lay handy, ready for repairing the road, and the coincidence caused Saurin’s idea to become popular at once.
“Let’s have one for a cockshy. Here’s Bismark.”
“He’s a German, and I hate German; most abominable language I have had to tackle yet. Stick Bismark up on that gate, and we will shy from the other side of the road. Stick him up, I say, you jabbering idiot.”
“Oh! sare, what pity to throw stone at the beautiful cast! Buy him and take him home, no break him.”