Mr. Moss looked round his little shop with the air of a conspirator, then leant forward confidentially.
“I’m goin’ to arsk ’er again,” he said.
“Who?” said William mystified.
“Someone I’ve arsked regl’ar every New Year’s Day for ten year.”
“Asked what?” said William, gazing sadly at his last sweet.
“Arsked to take me o’ course,” said Mr. Moss with an air of contempt for William’s want of intelligence.
“Take you where?” said William. “Where d’you want to go? Why can’t you go yourself?”
“Ter marry me, I means,” said Mr. Moss, blushing slightly as he spoke.
“Well,” said William with a judicial air, “I wun’t have asked the same one for ten years. I’d have tried someone else. I’d have gone on asking other people, if I wanted to get married. You’d be sure to find someone that wouldn’t mind you—with a sweet-shop, too. She must be a softie. Does she know you’ve got a sweet-shop?”
Mr. Moss merely sighed and popped a bull’s eye into his mouth with an air of abstracted melancholy.