“My idea is,” said Sprules, “that we’ve arrived at the limit. Enough is as good as a feast.”
“Is the dog all right?” asked Mrs. Marchant.
“Safe and sound,” replied the blacksmith, “where it’s been since it first slipped the collar. And I hope you won’t none of you forget that I’ve had to bear the axpense of feeding it.”
“That amounts to a mere trifle,” commented Mrs. Marchant curtly. “From what I know of you, Mr. Sprules, I’ll be bound you ent overdone it.”
“What might you mean by that, ma’am?”
“I mean what I say.”
“A civil question,” persisted Sprules, “requires a civil answer.”
“You’ve come to the wrong shop for that,” retorted the lady, with increasing heat. “When I speak, I speak plain, I do. If you must know what I was driving at it was that, ’cording to all reports, you’re the only one in your ’ouse who enjoys a hearty meal. What you can’t eat, you give to your wife and the children.”
The proprietor of The Windmill, an experienced man in the settlement of disputes by arbitration, and one frequently called upon to decide knotty points (such as the exact height of the late Lord Randolph Churchill, or the winner of the Oaks in ’94) found some trouble in bringing the discussion back to the item on the agenda. Before he succeeded in effecting this, Sprules had managed to tell Mrs. Marchant what he thought of her, and Mrs. Marchant told Sprules what she thought of him. Even when the original topic was again approached, the two eyed each other from opposite sides of the pavement; their lips continued to move without producing words.
“No occasion to quarrel,” said the innkeeper soothingly. “The amount ent large enough to justify that. When it’s all divided out equally—”