Buster conveyed the mentioned information to the clerk and received a reply in return that he felt justified in delivering.
"Mr. Dabble says has 'ow hit's a cursed lucky thing you did n't horder hanythink, and has 'ow it would n't do you hany good hif you hordered till Kingdom Come, sir."
"He said that, did he?" said Moore, angrily, rousing from his labors.
"Yes, sir. Shall Hi mash 'im in the phisomy?"
"No, Buster, I can't blame Mr. Porter for being angry, for it's a dog's age since I have paid him anything," answered Moore.
"Shall Hi let 'im hin?"
"Not yet, Buster. First ask him what ails the stout Mr. Porter?"
Buster snorted with merriment and repeated his master's question to the fellow in the hall.
"'Ee says has 'ow you knows confounded well wot hails 'im. 'Ee 's got no 'ead for hewmer, sir. Better let me mash 'im, Mr. Moore. The practice hand hexercise would do us both good."
"No, Buster, we 'll have no violence. Admit Mr. Dabble with appropriate solemnity."