He found Miss Twexby seated in the bar, with a decidedly cross face,
which argued ill for anyone who held converse with her that day; but
as Slivers was quite as crabbed as she was, and, moreover, feared
neither God nor man--much less a woman--he tackled her at once.
'Where's your father?' he asked, abruptly, leaning on his stick and
looking intently at the fair Martha's vinegary countenance.
'Asleep!' snapped that damsel, jerking her head in the direction of
the parlour; 'what do you want?'--very disdainfully.
'A little civility in the first place,' retorted Slivers, rudely,
sitting down on a bench that ran along the wall, and thereby causing
his wooden leg to stick straight out, which, being perceived by
Billy, he descended from the old man's shoulder and turned the leg
into a perch, where he sat and swore at Martha.
'You wicked old wretch,' said Miss Twexby, viciously--her nose
getting redder with suppressed excitement--'go along with you, and
take that irreligious parrot with you, or I'll wake my par.'
'He won't thank you for doing so,' replied Slivers, coolly; 'I've
called to see him about some new shares just on the market, and if
you don't treat me with more respect I'll go, and he'll be out of a
good thing.'
Now, Miss Twexby knew that Slivers was in the habit of doing
business with her parent, and, moreover was a power in the share
market, so she did not deem it diplomatic to go too far, and
bottling up her wrath for a future occasion, when no loss would be
involved, she graciously asked Slivers what he'd be pleased to have.
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