The Satellite.—Ah! got back? Is that you, Mr. Rink?
The Luminary.—Wal, ef 't a'n't me, 't 's my nose. Mebby y' a'n't aware, young man, that you planted your shoe-leather on my olfactory?
The Satellite.—Indeed, no, Sir. I thought I felt something under my foot, as I was getting up. So it seems it was your nose. Beg your pardon, Sir,—entirely unintentional. Hope I——
The Luminary.—Who's your shoemaker? What do you wear for cow-hide?
The Satellite.—An excellent artist, a long way from Paris. I have on at this moment a very neat thing in English gaiters, of respectable dimensions, toe-corners sharp as Damascus blade, three-fourths of an inch in sole, one and a half inches in heel, with a plenty of half-inch, cast-steel nails all round,—quite a neat thing, I assure you.
The Luminary.—Whew!
The Satellite.—But I hope, Sir, I haven't injured your nose?
The Luminary.—Can't tell jest yit. Anyhow, you gev me a proper sneezer, a most pertickler hahnsome socdolager, I vum! Landed jest below the peepers. But hold on till mornin', an' see how breakfast sets. I allers estimate the nose by the stomach. Ef I find my stomach's all right, 't 'll be a sure sign that the smellers are pooty rugged.
The Satellite.—That's rather an odd idea. I was aware that the nose is a natural guide to the stomach, but didn't know that the reverse would hold good. What is the——
The Luminary.—Poor rule that wun't work both ways. Six of one and half a dozen of the other. Do you s'pose the nose could afford to work free gratis for the stomach, with plenty to do an' nothin' to git? No, Sir, not by a jugful! People that want favors mustn't be stingy in givin' on 'em. It's on the scratch-my-back-an'-I'll-tickle-your-elbow system. The stomach's got to keep up his eend o' the rope, or he'll jest go under, sure. One good turn deserves another, you know.