or, as one might say, to grease his works. As the muffins disappear, little by little, the black shelves and nooks and corners begin to appear, and Mr. Wegg gradually acquires an imperfect notion that over against him on the chimneypiece is a Hindu baby in a bottle, curved up with his big head tucked under him, as he would instantly throw a summersault if the bottle were large enough.
When he deems Mr. Venus’s wheels sufficiently lubricated, Mr. Wegg approaches his object by asking, as he lightly taps his hands together, to express an undesigning frame of mind:
“And how have I been going on, this long time, Mr. Venus?”
“Very bad,” says Mr. Venus, uncompromisingly.
“What? Am I still at home?” asks Wegg, with an air of surprise.
“Always at home.”
This would seem to be secretly agreeable to Wegg, but he veils his feelings, and observes, “Strange. To what do you attribute it?”
“I don’t know,” replies Venus, who is a haggard melancholy man, speaking in a weak voice of querulous complaint, “to what to attribute it, Mr. Wegg. I can’t work you into a miscellaneous one, no how. Do what I will, you can’t be got to fit. Anybody with a passable knowledge would pick you out at a look, and say—‘No go! Don’t match!’ ”
“Well, but hang it, Mr. Venus,” Wegg expostulates with some little irritation, “that can’t be personal and peculiar in me . It must often happen with miscellaneous ones.”
“With ribs (I grant you) always. But not else. When I prepare a miscellaneous one, I know beforehand that I can’t keep to nature, and be miscellaneous with ribs, because every man has his own ribs, and no