"Oh, bother it, but you shall! I'll go down and fetch it up in half a minute, as sure as my name's Squallop!" And out of the room and down-stairs she bustled, glad of a moment to recover herself.
"Lord-a-mercy!" said she, on entering her room, to her eldest daughter and a neighbor who had just come in to supper—and while she hastily cut a thick hunch of bread, and a good slice of cheese—"there I've been a-rating that poor little chap, up at the top room, (my dandy lodger, you know,) like anything—and I really don't think he's had a morsel of victuals in his belly this precious day; and I've made him cry, poor soul! as if his heart would break. Pour us out half a pint of that beer, Sally—a good half pint, mind!—I'm going to take it up-stairs directly. I've gone a deal too far with him, I do think; but it's all of that nasty old Gripe; I've been wrong all the day through it! How I hate the sight of old Gripe! What hodious looking people they do get to collect the rates and taxes, to be sure!—Poor chap," she continued, as she wiped out a plate with her apron, and put into it the bread and cheese, together with a knife—"he offered me a chair when I went in, so uncommon civil-like, it took a good while before I could get myself into the humor to give it him as I wanted. And he's no father nor mother, (half of which has happened to you, Sal, and the rest will happen one of these days, you know—so you mind me while you have me!) and he's not such a very bad lodger, after all, though he does get a little behind-hand now and then, and though he turns out every Sunday like a lord, poor fool—as your poor dear father used to say, 'with a shining back and empty belly.'"
"But that's no reason why honest people should be kept out of their own, to feed his pride," interposed her neighbor, a skinny old widow, who had never had chick nor child, and was always behind-hand with her own rent; but whose effects were not worth distraining upon. "I'd get hold of some of his fine crincum-crancums and gimcracks, for security like, if I was you. I would, indeed."
"Why—no, poor soul—I don't hardly like: he's a vain creature, and puts everything he can on his back, to be sure; but he a'n't quite a rogue, neither."
"Ah, ha, Mrs. Squallop—you're such a simple soul!—Won't my fine gentleman make off with his finery after to-night?"
"Well, I shouldn't have thought it! To be sure he may! Really, there can't be much harm in asking him (in a proper kind of way) to deposit one of his fine things with me, by way of security—that ring of his, you know—eh?—Well, I'll try it anyhow," said Mrs. Squallop, as she set off up-stairs.
"I know what I should do, if so be he was a lodger of mine, that's all," said her visitor, significantly, (as Mrs. Squallop quitted the room,) vexed to find her supper so considerably and unexpectedly diminished, especially as to the pot of porter, which she strongly suspected would not be replenished.
"There," said Mrs. Squallop, setting down on the table what she had brought for Titmouse, "there's a bit of supper for you; and you're welcome to it, I'm sure, Mr. Titmouse."
"Thank you, thank you—I can't eat," said he, casting, however, upon the victuals a hungry eye, which belied what he said, while in his heart he longed to be left alone with them for about three minutes.
"Come, don't be ashamed—fall to work—it's good wholesome victuals," said she, lifting the table near to the edge of the bed, on the side of which he was sitting, and taking up the two shillings lying on the table—"and capital good beer, I warrant me; you'll sleep like a top after it."