Smith. That’s all you know. Here she is, bless her! Portrait of George as a gay hironmonger.
Moore. O rot! Hand it over, and keep yourself out of that there thundering moonlight.
Smith (lighting lantern). All right, old mumble-peg. Don’t you get carried away by the fire of old Rome. That’s your motto. Here are the tools; a perfect picter of the sublime and beautiful; and all I hope is, that our friend and pitcher, the Deakin, will make a better job of it than he did last night. If he don’t, I shall retire from the business—that’s all; and it’ll be George and his little wife and a black footman till death do us part.
Moore. O muck! You’re all jaw like a sheep’s jimmy. That’s my opinion of you. When did you see him last?
Smith. This morning; and he looked as if he was rehearsing for his own epitaph. I never see such a change in a man. I gave him the office for to-night; and was he grateful? Did he weep upon my faithful bosom? No; he smiled upon me like a portrait of the dear departed. I see his ’art was far away; and it broke my own to look at him.
Moore. Muck! Wot I ses is, if a cove’s got that much of the nob about him, wot’s the good of his working single-handed? That’s wot’s the matter with him.
Smith. Well, old Father Christmas, he ain’t single-handed to-night, is he?
Moore. No, he ain’t; he’s got a man with him to-night.
Smith. Pardon me, Romeo; two men, I think?
Moore. A man wot means business. If I’d a bin with him last night, it ain’t psalm-singin’ would have got us off. Psalm-singin’? Muck! Let ’em try it on with me.