We all sat down unconcernedly to wait for his honour, as if this had been some common lounge, or a sort of public coffee-house,—some on tops of barrels, others on bales or boxes; but neither of the two persons at the desks moved or took the smallest notice of us, as if they had been accustomed to people constantly going and coming.
"Where is your master?" said Twig at length to a negro that was tumbling goods about in the piazza.
"Dere him is," quoth Snowball—"dere in de contin hose;" indicating the direction by sticking out his chin, both paws being occupied at the time in rolling a tierce of beef.
"I say, Jacob Munroe," sung out Twig—"how are you, old boy? Nuzzling away in the old corner, I see."
"Hoo are ye? Hoo are ye the day, Mr Twig?" said a small husky voice from the sanctum.
I happened to sit a good deal farther back in the passage than the others of the party (farther ben I believe they would call it in Scotland), and thus could hear the two quill drivers, who were evidently unaware of my being within earshot, communing with each other, while my companions did not.
"Saunders," quoth the oldest man from the sanctum, "hae ye coonted the saydels?"
"Yes, uncle, twice over, and there is still one amissing."
"Vara extraordinar," rejoined the small husky voice from the dark corner—"Vara extraordinar."—Then after a pause—"Hae ye closed aw the accoonts, Saunders?"
"No, sir."