“Yes,” said Horace, looking round wildly for any avenue of escape, but finding none.
“Pretty hot in your shop, ain’t it?” said the lawyer’s clerk.
“Yes,” again said Horace, with a peculiar tingling sensation in his toes which his visitor little dreamed of.
Horace was not naturally a short-tempered youth, but there was something in the tone of this self-satisfied lawyer’s clerk which raised his dander.
“Not much of a berth, is it?” pursued the catechist.
“No,” said Horace.
“Not a very chirrupy screw, so I’m told—eh?”
This was rather too much. Either Horace must escape by flight, which would be ignominious, or he must knock his visitor down, which would be rude, or he must grin and bear it. The middle course was what he most inclined to, but failing that, he decided on the latter.
So he shook his head and waited patiently for the next question.
“What do you do, eh? dirty work, ain’t it?”