"I was thinking what you would do without me to cheer you up," said Smith.
"Cheer me hup, his it?" said the Baker, winking and contemptuous, "why, you are like a mute at a funeral; when 'e's going, I mean—not when 'e's coming back—jolly on the 'earse. But what would I do without you, in this 'ere 'eat and solitude? What would I do? Why, I'd go stark-starin', ravin', bally mad, and I'd cut my bloomin' throat from ear to ear, and jump in the billabong. That's me."
And he tramped for half an hour in sombre silence.
"What's your name reely, Smith?" said he, when his spirits came back and he could hold his tongue no longer.
"Lord Muck of Barking Creek," said Smith, with a coarseness rare to him.
"I knowed you was a lord," said the Baker, "I seed one from a distance onst. 'E 'ad the same 'aughty air and ways as you 'ave, and 'is nose was quite similar, same shape as a cheese-cutter."
On which Smith felt his nose, to reassure himself on the subject.
"And your christened name, Smith?"
"Archibald," said Smith.
"It don't go with Smith," said the Baker. "It sounds like the name of a master baker I worked for once, Bartholomew Onions. Archibald don't fit Smith reely."