“And about time to do it,” grumbles Silas, “when a man’s visitors, without a word of notice, conduct themselves with the sudden wiciousness of Jacks-in-boxes! Don’t come flying out of your chair like that, Mr. Venus!”
“I ask your pardon, Mr. Wegg. I am so soured.”
“Yes, but hang it,” says Wegg argumentatively, “a well-governed mind can be soured sitting! And as to being regarded in lights, there’s bumpy lights as well as bony. in which,” again rubbing his head, “I object to regard myself.”
“I’ll bear it in memory, sir.”
“If you’ll be so good.” Mr. Wegg slowly subdues his ironical tone and his lingering irritation, and resumes his pipe. “We were talking of old Mr. Harmon being a friend of yours.”
“Not a friend, Mr. Wegg. Only known to speak to, and to have a little deal with now and then. A very inquisitive character, Mr. Wegg, regarding what was found in the dust. As inquisitive as secret.”
“Ah! You found him secret?” returns Wegg, with a greedy relish.
“He had always the look of it, and the manner of it.”
“Ah!” with another roll of his eyes. “As to what was found in the dust now. Did you ever hear him mention how he found it, my dear friend? Living on the mysterious premises, one would like to know. For instance, where he found things? Or, for instance, how he set about it? Whether he began at the top of the mounds, or whether he began at the bottom. Whether he prodded”; Mr. Wegg’s pantomime is skilful and expressive here; “or whether he scooped? Should you say scooped, my dear Mr. Venus; or should you as a man—say prodded?”
“I should say neither, Mr. Wegg.”