It was evident to the slower-going Mr. Miller that his rival’s tongue was giving him an advantage which only the ever-watchful presence of the carpenter and his wife prevented him from pushing to the fullest advantage. In these circumstances he sat for two hours after breakfast one morning in deep cogitation, and after six pipes got up with a twinkle in his slow eyes which his brother dealers had got to regard as a danger signal.
He had only the glimmering of an idea at first, but after a couple of pints at the “Bell” everything took shape, and he cast his eyes about for an assistant. They fell upon a man named Smith, and the dealer, after some thought, took up his glass and went over to him.
“I want you to do something for me,” he remarked, in a mysterious voice.
“Ah, I’ve been wanting to see you,” said Smith, who was also a dealer in a small way. “One o’ them hins I bought off you last week is dead.”
“I’ll give you another for it,” said Miller.
“And the others are so forgetful,” continued Mr. Smith.
“Forgetful?” repeated the other.
“Forget to lay, like,” said Mr. Smith, musingly.
“Never mind about them,” said Mr. Miller, with some animation. “I want you to do something for me. If it comes off all right, I’ll give you a dozen hins and a couple of decentish-sized pigs.”
Mr. Smith called a halt. “Decentish-sized” was vague.