"Step hin 'ere, you sour-faced cockney," said Buster, throwing open the door. "Turn your noble footsies hin this direction, han don't kick the nap hoff the brussels carpet with your feet stools or Hi will lift you one in the phisomy, which his 'igh Henglish fer that ugly face o' yourn, you willain."
Chapter Eleven
TOM MOORE RECEIVES VISITS FROM TWO COBBLERS AND A CLERK
Mr. Dabble was a slender, sharp-featured young man of six-and-twenty. His face was sour and suspicious, an expression that was heightened by his wispy yellow hair that bristled up not unlike the comb on a rooster. He was long and lank, and afflicted with an overweight of good opinion as to his own merits which may have been the cause of his stooping shoulders.
After giving Buster a squelching glance, intended to reduce that impudent youth to a proper degree of humility (a result which it conspicuously failed to produce), this worthy person entered briskly, carrying on his arm a basket covered with an old cloth. Dabble believed in system, and in this instance having an order of sherry to deliver in the neighborhood took advantage of his being in the vicinity to dun the poet for his long over-due account.
Setting down the basket on the floor near the door, the clerk drew a bill from his vest pocket and advanced with it to the table at which Moore was pretending to be busily scribbling.
"Mr. Dabble, sir," announced Buster.
Moore did not look up.
"Tell Dabble to go to the devil," he remarked, absent-mindedly, continuing his writing.
"Mr. Moore, I refuse to go to the devil," exclaimed Dabble, indignantly.