Sich
things 'as a 'abit o' wanishing theirselves avay." Having said which,
Mr. Shrig walked on beside Barnabas as one who profoundly meditates,
for his brow was yet furrowed deep with thought.
"Why so silent, Mr. Shrig?" inquired Barnabas as they crossed
Blackfriars Bridge.
"Because I'm vorking out a problem, sir. For some time I've been
trying to add two and two together, and now I'm droring my
conclusions. So you know Old Nick the cobbler, do you, sir?"
"I didn't--an hour ago."
"Sir, when you vos in his shop, I took the liberty o' peeping in at
the winder."
"Indeed?"
"And I seen that theer 'andsome gal."
"Oh, did you?"
"I likewise 'eered her call your name--Beverley, I think?"
"Yes,--well?"
"Beverley!" repeated Mr. Shrig.
"Yes."
"But your name's--Barty!"
"True, but in London I'm known as Beverley, Mr. Shrig."
"Not--not--_the_ Beverley? Not the bang up Corinthian? Not the
Beverley as is to ride in the steeplechase?"
"Yes," said Barnabas, "the very same,--why?"
"Now--dang me for a ass!" exclaimed Mr. Shrig, and, snatching off
the fur cap, he dashed it to the ground, stooped, picked it up, and
crammed it back upon his head,--all in a moment.
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