“Bof—fin!” replied Wegg, turning upon him with a severe air, “I understand your newborn boldness. I see the brass underneath your silver plating. You have got your nose out of joint. Knowing that you’ve nothing at stake, you can afford to come the independent game. Why, you’re just so much smeary glass to see through, you know! But Mr. Harmon is in another sitiwation. What Mr. Harmon risks, is quite another pair of shoes. Now, I’ve heerd something lately about this being Mr. Harmon—I make out now, some hints that I’ve met on that subject in the newspaper—and I drop you, Bof—fin, as beneath my notice. I ask Mr. Harmon whether he has any idea of the contents of this present paper?”
“It is a will of my late father’s, of more recent date than the will proved by Mr. Boffin (address whom again, as you have addressed him already, and I’ll knock you down), leaving the whole of his property to the Crown,” said John Harmon, with as much indifference as was compatible with extreme sternness.
“Right you are!” cried Wegg. “Then,” screwing the weight of his body upon his wooden leg, and screwing his wooden head very much on one side, and screwing up one eye: “then, I put the question to you, what’s this paper worth?”
“Nothing,” said John Harmon.
Wegg had repeated the word with a sneer, and was entering on some sarcastic retort, when, to his boundless amazement, he found himself gripped by the cravat; shaken until his teeth chattered; shoved back, staggering, into a corner of the room; and pinned there.
“You scoundrel!” said John Harmon, whose seafaring hold was like that of a vice.
“You’re knocking my head against the wall,” urged Silas faintly.