"No!—'Pon my soul! but do you really think so?" said Titmouse, seeking still further confirmation than he had yet derived from his senses of sight and hearing.
"I do, by jingo!" repeated Huckaback—"What a go it is!—Well, my poor old mother used to say, 'depend on it, wonders never will cease;' and curse me if she ever said a truer word!"
Titmouse again read over the advertisement; and then picking up and relighting his fragment of cigar, puffed earnestly in silence for some moments.
"Such things never happens to such a poor devil of a chap as me!" exclaimed Huckaback, with a sigh.
"What is in the wind, I wonder?" muttered Titmouse. "Who knows—hem!—who knows?—But now, really"—— he paused, and once more read over the pregnant paragraph.—"It can't—no, curse me, it can't be"—— he added, looking very serious.
"What, Tit? What can't be?" interrupted Huckaback, eagerly.
"Why, I've been thinking—but what do you think, eh?—it can't hardly be a cursed hoax of the chaps in the premises at Tag-rag's?"
"Bo!—Is there any of 'em flush enough of money to do the thing? And how should they think it would ever come to be seen by you?—Then, besides, there isn't a chap among them that could come up to the composing a piece of composition like that—no, not for all a whole year's salary—there isn't, by George! You and I couldn't do it, and, of course, they couldn't!"
"Ah! I don't know," said Titmouse, doubtfully. "But—honor!—do you really now think there's anything in it?"
"I do—I'm blowed if I don't, Tit!" was the sententious answer.