His patron being much engaged with his own thoughts, did not observe this for some time, nor indeed until the Chicken, determined not to be overlooked, had made divers clicking sounds with his tongue and teeth, to attract attention.
"Now, Master," said the Chicken, doggedly, when he, at length, caught Mr. Toots’s eye, "I want to know whether this here gammon is to finish it, or whether you ’re a going in to win?"
"Chicken," returned Mr. Toots, "explain yourself."
"Why then, here’s all about it, Master," said the Chicken. "I ain’t a cove to chuck a word away. Here’s wot it is. Are any on 'em to be doubled up?"
When the Chicken put this question he dropped his hat, made a dodge and a feint with his left hand, hit a supposed enemy a violent blow with his right, shook his head smartly, and recovered himself.
"Come, Master," said the Chicken. "Is it to be gammon or pluck? Which?"
"Chicken," returned Mr. Toots, "your expressions are coarse, and your meaning is obscure."
"Why, then, I tell you what, Master," said the Chicken. "This is where it is. It’s mean."
"What is mean, Chicken?" asked Mr. Toots.
"It is," said the Chicken, with a frightful corrugation of his broken nose. "There! Now, Master! Wot! Wen you could go and blow on this here match to the stiff’un;" by which depreciatory appellation it has been since supposed that the Game One intended to signify Mr. Dombey; "and when you could knock the winner and all the kit of 'em dead out o’ wind and time, are you going to give in? To give in?" said the Chicken, with contemptuous emphasis. "Wy, it’s mean!"
"Chicken," said Mr. Toots, severely, "you ’re a perfect Vulture! Your sentiments are atrocious."
"My sentiments is Game and Fancy, Master," returned the Chicken. "That’s wot my sentiments is. I can’t abear a meanness. I’m afore the public, I’m to be heerd on at the bar of the Little Helephant, and no Gov’ner o’ mine mustn’t go and do what’s mean. Wy, it’s mean," said the Chicken, with increased expression. "That’s where it is. It’s mean."
"Chicken," said Mr. Toots, "you disgust me."
"Master," returned the Chicken, putting on his hat, "there’s a pair on us, then. Come! Here’s a offer! You ’ve spoke to me more than once’t or twice’t about the public line. Never mind! Give me a fi’typunnote to-morrow, and let me go."
"Chicken," returned Mr. Toots, "after the odious sentiments you have expressed, I shall be glad to part on such terms."
"Done then," said the Chicken. "It’s a bargain. This here conduct of yourn won’t suit my book, Master. Wy, it’s mean," said the Chicken; who seemed equally unable to get beyond that point, and to stop short of it. "That’s where it is; it’s mean!"
So Mr. Toots and the Chicken agreed to part on this incompatibility of moral perception; and Mr. Toots lying down to sleep, dreamed happily of Florence, who had thought of him as her friend upon the last night of her maiden life, and who had sent him her dear love.
