The clerk now roused Ikey, and, with considerable difficulty, induced him to leave his hard and comfortless dormitory.
“The gentleman has a job for you,” said the clerk, as Ikey staggered towards young Fairfax.
“I don't want no jobs,” muttered Ikey. “Saturday night comes often enough for me. Seven-and-twenty wagons a-week, out and in, in the way of work, and half-a-guinea a-week, in the way of wages, is as much as I can manage.”
“Ikey is very temperate, sir,” said the clerk; “very temperate, I must allow;—he eats little and drinks less: he keeps up his flesh by sleeping, and sucking his thumbs.”
“Ah! you will have your joke,” said Ikey, turning towards the heap of luggage again.
“And won't you earn a shilling or two, Ikey?” said the clerk.
“No; I'm an independent man: I have as much work as I can do, and as much wages as I want. I wish you wouldn't wake me, when there's no wagon:—how should you like it?”
“Well, but, friend Pope,” said Godfrey, “as you will not take money, perhaps you'll be generous enough to do a gentleman a favour. I shall be happy to make you some acceptable little present—keepsake, I mean—in return. I've an old pair of Hessians,—and, as I think our legs are about of a size—”
“Of a size!” said Ikey, facing about towards young Fairfax, and, for the first time, unclosing his heavy lids; “of a size!” repeated he, a second time, casting a critical glance on Godfrey's leg; “I can hardly think that.”
Ikey dropped on one knee, and, without uttering a word, proceeded to measure Godfrey's calves with his huge, hard hands. He then rose, and rather dogmatically observed, “The gentleman has got a goodish sort of a leg; but,” continued he, “his calves don't travel in flush enough with one another exactly: he couldn't hold a sixpence between his ancles, the middle of his legs, and his knees, as a person I'm acquainted with can, when he likes to turn his toes out:—but I think your boots might fit me, sir.”