"Yes; I stopped work yesterday, and—and—and that's the reason I wanted to see you," sobbed he, wiping his face with his dirty hands.
I thought he wanted to see me for a good many reasons; but I concluded to wait until he had recovered his self-possession before I asked any more questions. When the silence had continued for full five minutes, it became embarrassing to him, and he remarked that he had wanted to see me.
"I believe you have lost your senses, Sim," I replied.
"No; I haven't lost my senses—only my stomach," said he, with a piteous look, which alone prevented me from laughing at his ludicrous speech, and the more ludicrous expression upon his face.
"What is the matter with your stomach?" I inquired.
"Nothing in it," whined he.
"What do you mean?" I asked, sharply, rather to quicken his wits than to express anger.
"I quit work yesterday."
"So you said before."
"I can't stay to Barkspear's no longer; and that's the reason I wanted to see you," said he, blubbering, and absolutely howling in his deep grief.