"Ah! very good. Now, take up the wires if you please, ma'am, and do what I tell you. Now, drop that stitch,—good; and take up this one,—capital; and pull this one across that way,—so; and that one across this way,—exactly. Now, what is the result?"
The result was a complicated knot; and Mrs. Grumbit, after staring a few seconds at the old gentleman in surprise, said so, and begged to know what use it was of.
"Oh, never mind, never mind. We merchants have strange fancies, and foreigners have curious tastes now and then. Please to make all my socks with a hitch like that in them all round, just above the ankle. It will form an ornamental ring. I'm sorry to put you to the trouble, but of course I pay extra for fancy-work. Will six shillings a pair do for these?"
"My dear sir," said Mrs. Grumbit, "it is no additional—"
"Well, well, never mind," said Mr. Jollyboy. "Two thousand pairs, remember, as soon as possible,—close knitted, plain stitch, rather coarse worsted; and don't forget the hitch, Mrs. Grumbit, don't forget the hitch."
Ah! reader, there are many Mrs. Grumbits in this world, requiring hitches to be made in their stockings!
At this moment the door burst open. Mrs. Dorothy Grumbit uttered a piercing scream, Mr. Jollyboy dropped his spectacles and sat down on his hat, and Martin Rattler stood before them with the white kitten in his arms.
For a few seconds there was a dead silence, while an expression of puzzled disappointment passed over Mr. Jollyboy's ruddy countenance. At last he said,—
"Is this, madam, the nephew who, you told me a little ago, is not addicted to fighting?"
"Yes," answered the old lady faintly, and covering her eyes with her hands, "that is Martin."