“Look ’ere,” interrupted the anxious young publican. “’Ave a ceegar at my expense, and let bygones be bygones.”
“My young friend,” said the baker, balancing to and fro as he rested one hand on the zinc counter, “if I’ve ’pologized to you in any way, I can only say that it’s purely cler’cal error on my part, and I’m prepared to most humbly insult—”
“You mean,” corrected the young publican, “that if you’ve insulted him you’re prepared to apologize.”
“Dammit,” cried the baker, turning explosively on the young proprietor, “can’t two genlemen settle their pers’nal disputes without a blooming pot’ouse keeper dictatin’ to ’em? What?”
“Yes,” said Bobbie, not to be outdone, “what th’ ’ell do you—”
“You mistook my meanin’, gentlemen,” said the young publican penitently. “All I want is peace and quietness.”
“Precious rum way you’ve got of going about it,” said Bobbie truculently. “You take my advice, Mr. Public-house, and don’t you interfere with whatever matters there may be in this world that don’t in no wise whatsoever tend to concern you.”
“Spoke,” declared the tipsy baker, offering his hand to Bobbie; “spoke like a norator. Give us a song, ole man.”
“Gentlemen, I do hope—”
“Can’t give you a song,” said the flushed boy; “but I can give you a tune on the cornet.”