'
'Puffer,' assents Deputy, with a shrewd leer of recognition, and
smoking an imaginary pipe, with his head very much on one side and
his eyes very much out of their places: 'Hopeum Puffer.'
'What is her name?'
''Er Royal Highness the Princess Puffer.'
'She has some other name than that; where does she live?'
'Up in London. Among the Jacks.'
'The sailors?'
'I said so; Jacks; and Chayner men: and hother Knifers.'
'I should like to know, through you, exactly where she lives.'
'All right. Give us 'old.'
A shilling passes; and, in that spirit of confidence which should
pervade all business transactions between principals of honour,
this piece of business is considered done.
'But here's a lark!' cries Deputy. 'Where did yer think 'Er Royal
Highness is a-goin' to to-morrow morning? Blest if she ain't a-
goin' to the KIN-FREE-DER-EL!' He greatly prolongs the word in his
ecstasy, and smites his leg, and doubles himself up in a fit of
shrill laughter.
'How do you know that, Deputy?'
'Cos she told me so just now. She said she must be hup and hout o'
purpose. She ses, "Deputy, I must 'ave a early wash, and make
myself as swell as I can, for I'm a-goin' to take a turn at the
KIN-FREE-DER-EL!"' He separates the syllables with his former
zest, and, not finding his sense of the ludicrous sufficiently
relieved by stamping about on the pavement, breaks into a slow and
stately dance, perhaps supposed to be performed by the Dean.
Mr. Datchery receives the communication with a well-satisfied
though pondering face, and breaks up the conference.
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