It was Black Tom, smoking with perspiration.
“Aisy, man, aisy,” said Cæsar, with lofty dignity. “I've the gig on the quay.”
“And I've a stiff cart on the market,” said Black Tom.
“I'm wanting no assistance,” said Cæsar; “you needn't trouble yourself.”
“Don't mention it, Cæsar,” said Black Tom, and he turned the trunk on end and bent his back to lift it.
But Cæsar put a heavy hand on top and said, “Gough bless me, man, but I am sorry for thee. Mammon hath entered into thy heart, Tom.”
“He have just popped out of thine, then,” said Black Tom, swirling the trunk on one of its corners.
But Cæsar held on, and said, “I don't know in the world why you should let the devil of covetousness get the better of you.”
“I don't mane to—let go the chiss,” said Black Tom, and in another minute he had it on his shoulder.
“Now, I believe in my heart,” said Cæsar, “I would be forgiven a little violence,” and he took the trunk by both hands to bring it down again.