'
'It's more nor your coffee is,' growled Grattles, who had finished
his special and was now licking his fingers, 'it's all grounds and
'ot water.'
'Go away, you wicious thing,' retorted Spilsby, mildly, giving Kitty
her coffee and change out of the money she handed him, 'or I'll set
the perlice on yer.'
'Oh, my eye!' shrieked Grattles, executing a grimace after the
fashion of a favourite comedian; 'he ain't a tart, oh, no--'es a
pie, 'e are, a special, a muttony special; 'e don't kill no kittings
and call 'em sheep, oh, no; 'e don't buy chicory and calls it
coffee, blest if 'e does; 'e's a corker, 'e are, and 'is name ain't
the same as 'is father's.'
'What d'ye mean,' asked Spilsby, fiercely--that is, as fiercely as
his meek appearance would let him; 'what do you know of my parents,
you bandy-legged little devil? who's your--progenitor, I'd like to
know?'
'A dook, in course,' said Grattles loftily; 'but we don't, in
consequence of 'er Nibs bein' mixed up with the old man's mother,
reweal the family skeletons to low piemen,' then, with a fresh
grimace, he darted along the street as quickly as his bandy legs
could carry him.
Spilsby took no notice of this, but, seeing some people coming round
the corner, commenced to sing out his praises of the specials.
' 'Ere yer are--all 'ot an' steamin',' he cried, in a kind of loud
bleat, which added still more to his sheep-like appearance:
'Spilsby's Specials--oh, lovely--ain't they nice; my eye, fine
muttin pies; who ses Spilsby's; 'ave one, miss?' to Kitty.
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