"You?" said Holman, in astonishment.
"Certainly," said Jimmy, with great coolness, as if he felt himself master of the situation, "and I think my claim is better than yours. Whatever there is between you and her—if there is anything—is entirely of your seeking. But in my case it's all of her seeking; she sent me flowers every day when I was laid up."
"That's nothing—that doesn't mean anything," said Holman.
"If it doesn't, then I've read the poets all wrong," said Jimmy.
"Poetæ apis suspensi!—poets be hanged!" exclaimed Isaac, and then gave a prolonged whistle, which closed the conversation.
Phaeton, who was next to me, and also overheard, opened his mouth as if to say something to Jimmy, but checked himself. Yet he was so full of his idea that he was obliged to utter it somehow, and so whispered it in my ear:
"If it comes to that, my claim is even better than his, for she gave flowers to me when I was not an object of pity."
The way Monkey Roe did that job created an epoch in bill-posting.
We passed the office of a veterinary surgeon, who had the skeleton of a horse, mounted on a board, for a sign; and before anybody knew what he was about, Monkey whipped off one of the bills from Jimmy's arm, and pasted it right across the skeleton's ribs.
We came to a loaded coal-cart, broken down in the middle of the street by the crushing of a wheel, and he posted one on that.