“It never happened that I did so yet, to the best of my remembrance,” said Mr. Wegg, cautiously. “But I might do it. A man can’t say what he might wish to do some day or another.” (This, not to release any little advantage he might derive from Mr. Boffin’s avowal.)
“Well,” repeated Boffin, “I was a listening to you and to him. And what do you—you haven’t got another stool, have you? I’m rather thick in my breath.”
“I haven’t got another, but you’re welcome to this,” said Wegg, resigning it. “It’s a treat to me to stand.”
“Lard!” exclaimed Mr. Boffin, in a tone of great enjoyment, as he settled himself down, still nursing his stick like a baby, “it’s a pleasant place, this! And then to be shut in on each side, with these ballads, like so many book-leaf blinkers! Why, its delightful!”
“If I am not mistaken, sir,” Mr. Wegg delicately hinted, resting a hand on his stall, and bending over the discursive Boffin, “you alluded to some offer or another that was in your mind?”
“I’m coming to it! All right. I’m coming to it! I was going to say that when I listened that morning, I listened with hadmiration amounting to haw. I thought to myself, ‘Here’s a man with a wooden leg—a literary man with—’ ”
“N—not exactly so, sir,” said Mr. Wegg.
“Why, you know every one of these songs by name and by tune, and if you want to read or to sing any one on ’em off straight, you’ve only to whip on your spectacles and do it!” cried Mr. Boffin. “I see you at it!”