A CHILD OF THE JAGO
"Brass roastin'-jacks at a shillin'?" exclaimed Grinder, shocked at the notion. "Why, no!"
Mr. Weech appeared mildly surprised. "Nor yut seven-poun' jars o' jam an' pickles at sixpence?" he pursued, with his eye on those ranged behind the counter.
"No!"
"Nor door-mats at fourpence?"
"Fourpence? Cert'nly not!"
Mr. Weech's face fell into a blank perplexity. He pawed his ear with a doubtful air, murmuring absently: "Well, I'm sure he said fourpence: an' sixpence for pickles, an' bring 'em round after the shop was shut. But there," he added, more briskly, "there's no 'arm done, an' no doubt it's a mistake." He turned as though to leave, but Mr. Grinder restrained him.
"But look 'ere," he said, "I want to know about this. Wotjer mean? 'Oo
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