Thus appealed to, Phil said that he didn’t know, and, what was more, he didn’t care.
“Now don’t sit talkin’ nonsense, but sit in to tea,” said Mrs Crashington.
The stout fireman’s natural amiability had been returning like a flood while he conversed with Fred, but this sharp summons rather checked its flow; and when he was told in an exasperating tone to hand the toast, and not look like a stuck pig, it was fairly stopped, and his spirit sank to zero.
“Have you got anything to do yet?” he asked of Phil Sparks, by way of cheering up a little.
“No, nothin’,” replied Sparks; “leastways nothin’ worth mentionin’.”
“I knew his last application would fail,” observed Maggie, in a quietly contemptuous tone.
His last application had been made through Ned’s influence and advice, and that is how she came to know it would fail.
Ned felt a rising of indignation within him which he found it difficult to choke down, because it was solely for his wife’s sake that he had made any effort at all to give a helping hand to surly Phil Sparks, for whom he entertained no personal regard. But Ned managed to keep his mouth shut. Although a passionate man, he was not ill-tempered, and often suffered a great deal for the sake of peace.
“London,” growled Sparks, in a tone of sulky remonstrance, “ain’t a place for a man to git on in. If you’ve the luck to have friends who can help you, an’ are willin’, why it’s well enough; but if you haven’t got friends, its o’ no manner o’ use to try anything, except pocket-pickin’ or house-breakin’.”
“Come, Phil,” said Ned, laughing, as he helped himself to a huge round of buttered toast, “I ’ope you han’t made up your mind to go in for either of them professions, for they don’t pay. They entail hard work, small profits, an’ great risk—not to mention the dishonesty of ’em. But I don’t agree with you about London neither.”