'I'll remember you for your trouble,' observed Mr. Sponge, diving his right
hand into his breeches' pocket.
'Mr. Bottleends be gone to bed,' observed the woman, now ceasing her
evolutions, and parting her grisly, disordered tresses, as she advanced and
stood staring, with her arms akimbo, out of the window. She was the
under-housemaid's deputy; all the servants at Nonsuch House doing the rough
of their work by deputy. Lady Scattercash was a _real_ lady, and liked to
have the credit of the house maintained, which of course can only be done
by letting the upper servants do nothing. 'Mr. Bottleends be gone to bed,'
observed the woman.
'Mr. Bottleends?' repeated Mr. Sponge; 'who's he?'
'The butler, to be sure,' replied she, astonished that any person should
have to ask who such an important personage was.
'Can't you call him?' asked Mr. Sponge, still fumbling in his pocket.
'Couldn't, if it was ever so,' replied the dame, smoothing her dirty
blue-checked apron with her still dirtier hand.
'Why not?' asked Mr.
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