"They'll never call you leather-lungs."
"Oh Joe, Joe! you'll be the death of me. You're a duffer, and it is no use saying you're not. I was going to tell you I'd got a berth for you, but I'm afraid you could not keep it."
"What is it?"
"Clerk in the office of my old friend, Mr. Maybrick, the stockbroker."
"Eh!" said Joseph. "What's a mockstoker?"
"A stockbroker," shouted Mr. Loyd.
"Why didn't you say so at first. Do you think I don't know what that is? I'm not quite such a fool as that comes to."
"You'd aggravate a saint, Joe."
"Paint your toe! Have you gone mad?"
"Great heavens! I shall hit you; get out," shrieked his father.