'There,' replied Leather, 'those by the book-stall. That be Mr. Waffles,'
continued he, giving his master a touch in the ribs as he jerked his
portmanteau into a fly, 'that be Mr. Waffles,' repeated he, with a knowing
leer.
'Which?' inquired Mr. Sponge eagerly.
'The gent in the green wide-awake 'at, and big-button'd overcoat,' replied
Leather, 'jest now a speakin' to the youth in the tweed and all tweed; that
be Master Caingey Thornton, as big a little blackguard as any in the
place--lives upon Waffles, and yet never has a good word to say for him,
no, nor for no one else--and yet to 'ear the little devil a-talkin' to him,
you'd really fancy he believed there wasn't not never sich another man i'
the world as Waffles--not another sich rider--not another sich
racket-player--not another sich pigeon-shooter--not another sich fine chap
altogether.'
'Has Thornton any horses?' asked Sponge.
'Not he,' replied Leather, 'not he, nor the gen'lman next him nouther--he,
in the pilot coat, with the whip sticking out of the pocket, nor the one in
the coffee-coloured 'at, nor none on 'em in fact'; adding, 'they all live
on Squire Waffles--breakfast with him--dine with him--drink with him--smoke
with him--and if any on 'em 'appen to 'ave an 'orse, why they sell to him,
and so ride for nothin' themselves.
Pages:
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82