“I do not,” said Mr. Kybird, with lofty indifference.
“I shouldn't come 'ere again, that's what I should do,” said Charles, frankly. “Next time he'll throw you in the fireplace.”
“Ho,” said the heated Mr. Kybird. “Ho, will he? I'd like to see 'im. I'll make 'im sorry for this afore I've done with 'im. I'll learn 'im to insult a respectable British tradesman. I'll show him who's who.”
“What'll you do?” inquired the other.
“Never you mind,” said Mr. Kybird, who was not in a position to satisfy his curiosity—“never you mind. You go and get on with your work, Charles, and p'r'aps by the time your moustache 'as grown big enough to be seen, you'll 'ear something.”
“I 'eard something the other day,” said the bar-man, musingly; “about you it was, but I wouldn't believe it.”
“Wot was it?” demanded the other.
“Nothing much,” replied Charles, standing with his hand on the door-knob, “but I wouldn't believe it of you; I said I couldn't.”
“Wot—was—it?” insisted Mr. Kybird.
“Why, they said you once gave a man a fair price for a pair of trousers,” said the barman, indignantly.