The idea of being excluded from the upper circles of the society in which he had been in the habit of moving, fell heavily upon the heart of poor Dilly Jones. He imagined the curled lips and scornful glances of the aristocratic fair, who now listened with gratification to his compliments and to his soft nonsense; he saw himself passed unrecognised in the street—absolutely cut by his present familiar friends, and the thought of losing caste almost crushed his already dejected spirit.
The workings of his imagination, combined with the fatigue of his limbs, caused such exhaustion, that, dislodging his horse from his shoulder, he converted it into a camp-stool, seated himself under the lee of a shop window, and, after slinging his saw petulantly at a dog, gazed with vacant eyes upon the people who occasionally passed, and glanced at him with curiosity.
“Hey, Mister!” said a shop-boy, at last, “I want to get shut of you, ’cause we’re goin’ to shet up. You’re right in the way, and if you don’t boom along, why Ben and me will have to play hysence, clearance, puddin’s out with you afore you’ve time to chalk your knuckles—won’t we, Ben?”
“We’ll plump him off of baste before he can say fliance, or get a sneak. We’re knuckle dabsters, both on us. You’d better emigrate—the old man’s coming, and if he finds you here, he’ll play the mischief with you, before you can sing out, ‘I’m up if you knock it and ketch.’ ”
So saying, the two lads placed themselves one on each side of Dilly, and began swinging their arms with an expression that hinted very plainly at a forcible ejectment. Dilly, however, who had forgotten all that he ever knew of the phrases so familiar to those who scientifically understand the profound game of marbles, wore the puzzled air of one who labours to comprehend what is said to him. But the meaning became so apparent as not to be mistaken, when Ben gave a sudden pull at the horse, which almost dismounted the rider.
“Don’t be so unfeelin’,” ejaculated Dilly, as he clutched the cross-bars of his seat; “don’t be unfeelin’, for a man in grief is like a wood-piler in a cellar—mind how you chuck, or you’ll crack his calabash.”
“Take care of your calabash, then,” was the grinning response; “you must skeete, even if you have to cut high-dutchers with your irons loose, and that’s no fun.”
“High-dutch yourself, if you know how; only go ’way from me, ’cause I ain’t got no time.”
“Well,” said the boys, “haven’t we caught you on our payment?—what do you mean by crying here—what do you foller when you’re at home?”
“I works in wood; that’s what I foller.”