“Well, sir,” returned Mr. Wegg, with a conscious inclination of the head; “we’ll say literary, then.”
“ ‘A literary man— with a wooden leg—and all print is open to him!’ That’s what I thought to myself, that morning,” pursued Mr. Boffin, leaning forward to describe, uncramped by the clotheshorse, as large an arc as his right arm could make; “ ‘all print is open to him!’ And it is, ain’t it?”
“Why, truly, sir,” Mr. Wegg admitted, with modesty; “I believe you couldn’t show me the piece of English print, that I wouldn’t be equal to collaring and throwing.”
“On the spot?” said Mr. Boffin.
“On the spot.”
“I know’d it! Then consider this. Here am I, a man without a wooden leg, and yet all print is shut to me.”
“Indeed, sir?” Mr. Wegg returned with increasing self-complacency. “Education neglected?”
“Neg—lected!” repeated Boffin, with emphasis. “That ain’t no word for it. I don’t mean to say but what if you showed me a B, I could so far give you change for it, as to answer Boffin.”
“Come, come, sir,” said Mr. Wegg, throwing in a little encouragement, “that’s something, too.”
“It’s something,” answered Mr. Boffin, “but I’ll take my oath it ain’t much.”
“Perhaps it’s not as much as could be wished by an inquiring mind, sir,” Mr. Wegg admitted.