"D—n it," said the grocer, "who would have thought of that? here's a pretty go, curse that fellow, he is the cause of all this; I'll be revenged upon him, if it's a year hence."
The enraged grocer drew his hand out, but was unable to effect his object in withdrawing the knife also; but he saw something shining, he stooped to pick it up, exclaiming as he did so, in a gratified tone of voice,
"Ah, here's something that will do better."
As he made a grasp at it, he found he had inserted his hand into something soft.
"God bless me! what now?"
He pulled his hand hastily away, and found that it stuck slightly, and then he saw what it was.
"Ay, ay, the very thing. Surely it must have been placed here on purpose by the people."
The fact was, he had placed his hand into a pot of pitch that had been left by the people who had been at work at pitching the pales, but had been attracted by the fire at Sir Francis Varney's, and to see which they had left their work, and the pitch was left on a smouldering peat fire, so that when Mr. Jones, the grocer, accidentally put his hand into it he found it just warm.
When he made this discovery he dabbed his hand again into the pitch-pot, exclaiming,—
"In for a penny, in for a pound."