“If he goes in as tenpence, I’m a Dutchman,” said the bereaved owner, scoring out the copper nails. “You never knew that dog properly, Tweedie.”
“Well, never mind about the dog,” said Tweedie; “let’s cast the sheet. What do you think it comes to?”
“‘Bout thirty pun’,” hazarded the other.
“Thirty fiddlesticks,” retorted Tweedie; “there you are in black and white—sixty-three pounds eighteen shillings and tenpence ha’penny.”
“And is that what Mas’r Edward wants?” inquired Captain Fazackerly, gasping.
“Yes; that’s a properly drawn up disbursement sheet,” said Tweedie in satisfied tones. “You see how it simplifies matters. The governor can see at a glance how things stand, while, if you trusted to your memory, you might forget something, or else claim something you didn’t have.”
“I ought to have had them things afore,” said Captain Fazackerly, shaking his head solemnly. “I’d ha’ been riding in my carriage by now.”
“Never ye dream of having another v’y’ge without one,” said Tweedie. “I doubt whether it’s lawful to render an account without one.”
He folded the paper, and handed it to his friend, who, after inspecting it with considerable pride, tucked it carefully away in his breast pocket.
“Take it up in the morning,” said Tweedie. “We’ll have a bit o’ tea down here, and then we’ll go round a bit afterwards.”