“But we keeps it on a table, sir, an’ w’en our friends walk round the table they can’t ’elp seein’ the broken eye.”
“Well, then,” persisted Mr Blurt, “don’t let your friends walk round the table. Shove the bird up against the wall; or tell your friends that it’s a humorous bird, an’ takes to winking when they go to that side.”
The woman received this advice with a smile, but insisted nevertheless that a “noo heye” would be preferable, and wanted to know the price.
“Well, you know,” said Mr Blurt, “that depends on the size and character of the eye, and the time required to insert it, for, you see, in our business everything depends on a life-like turn being given to an eye—or a beak—or a toe, and we don’t like to put inferior work out of our hands. So you’d better leave the bird and call again.”
“Very well, sir, w’en shall I call?”
“Say next week. I am very busy just now, you see—extremely busy, and cannot possibly give proper attention to your affair at present. Stay—give me your address.”
The woman did so, and left the shop while Mr Blurt looked about for a memorandum-book. Opening one, which was composite in its character—having been used indifferently as day-book, cashbook, and ledger—he headed a fresh page with the words “Memorandum of Transactions by Enoch Blurt,” and made the following entry:—
“A woman—I should have said an idiot—came in and left a pheasant, minus an eye, to be repaired and called for next week.”
“There!” exclaimed the unfortunate man, shutting the book with emphasis.
“Please, sir,” said a very small sweet voice.