“Be that loryer Prigg?” shouted a voice from the inner room.
“Aye, aye, Tom, it be Mr. Prigg.”
“Come in, zur,” said the voice, “come in; I be mighty glad to see thee. Why dam—”
“Hush!” remonstrated the diffuser of Christianity among the Jews; “hush!” and his hands were softly raised in gentle protest—albeit his head never turned so much as a hair’s breadth. “Let us be calm, my dear sir, let us be calm. We win by being calm.”
“Ah, we winned the lawsuit; didn’t us, sir?”
“Ah, that thee did, Tom!” exclaimed Mrs. Bumpkin, delighted at this momentary gleam of gladness in her husband’s broken heart.
“Of course we won,” said Mr. Prigg. “Did I ever entertain a doubt from the first about the merits of that case?”
“Thee did not, sir,” said Tom; “but lookee ’ere, sir,” he continued, in almost a whisper, “I dreamt last night as we lost un; and I see thic Snooks a sniggering as plaain as ever I see’d anybody in my life.”
“My dear sir, what matters your dream? We won, sir. And as for Snooks’ sniggering, I am sorry to say he is sold up.”
“Sold oop!” exclaimed Bumpkin. “Sorry! why beest thee sorry for un—beant thee sorry for I?”