"Nay, nowt for you, my dear. You're one of them that allus looks best with nothing on."
"Oh, Gubblum!"
The compliment was certainly a dubious one.
"Only your bits of shabby duds—that's all that pretty faces like yours wants."
"Oh, Gubblum!"
The peddler was evidently a dear, simple soul.
"Lord bless you, yes; what's in here," slapping his pack contemptuously, "it's only for them wizzent old creatures up in London—them 'at have faces like the map of England when it shows all the lines of the railways—just to make them a bit presentable, you know. And there is no knowing what some of these things won't do to mak' a body smart—what with brooches and handkerchers and collars, and I don't know what."
Gubblum's air of indifference had the extraordinary effect of bringing a dozen pairs of gloating eyes on the strapped pack. The face of the peddler wore an expression of bland innocence as he continued:
"But bless you, I'm such a straightforward chap, or I'd make my fortune with the like of what's here."
"Open your pack, Gubblum," said one of the fellows, Geordie Moore, prompted by sundry prods from the elbow of a little damsel by his side.