“Six in two hours—that’s three an hour.”
“Quite right; not bad for Dubbs, that, is it, Crow?” put in Wallop.
“No. He’s reckoned it up right this time.”
“I wish you’d reckon it up right now and then,” retorted Doubleday. “How about the change out of those two handkerchiefs?”
“There is no change,” said Crow, sulkily; “they were sixpence each.”
“What’s the use of saying that, when they are stuck up fourpence-halfpenny each in the window, you young thief?”
“You can get them yourself, then,” replied the injured Crow. “I’ll go no more jobs for you—there! I’m not the junior now, and I’m hanged if I’ll put up with it.”
“You’ll probably be hanged, whether you put up with it or not,” was Mr Doubleday’s retort, who, apparently desirous to change the conversation, suddenly rounded on me, as I was looking up and listening to the edifying dialogue.
“Now then, young Batchelor, dawdling again. Upon my word I’ll speak to Mr Barnacle about you. Mind, I mean what I say.”
“You’d better look-out, young turnip-top, I can tell you,” growled Crow; “when Dubbs means what he says, it’s no joke, I can tell you.”