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Updated: June 27, 2025
Smallweed, compelling the attendance of the waitress with one hitch of his eyelash, instantly replies as follows: "Four veals and hams is three, and four potatoes is three and four, and one summer cabbage is three and six, and three marrows is four and six, and six breads is five, and three Cheshires is five and three, and four half-pints of half-and-half is six and three, and four small rums is eight and three, and three Pollys is eight and six.
"So we got a hackney-cab, and put a chair in it, and just round the corner they lifted me out of the cab and into the chair, and carried me here that I might see my dear friend in his own establishment! This," says Grandfather Smallweed, alluding to the bearer, who has been in danger of strangulation and who withdraws adjusting his windpipe, "is the driver of the cab. He has nothing extra.
His appearance, after visiting Mrs. Smallweed with one of these admonitions, is particularly impressive and not wholly prepossessing, firstly because the exertion generally twists his black skull-cap over one eye and gives him an air of goblin rakishness, secondly because he mutters violent imprecations against Mrs.
Guppy and Smallweed finish theirs, thus getting over the ground in excellent style and beating those two gentlemen easily by a veal and ham and a cabbage. "Now, Small," says Mr. Guppy, "what would you recommend about pastry?" "Marrow puddings," says Mr. Smallweed instantly. "Aye, aye!" cries Mr. Jobling with an arch look. "You're there, are you? Thank you, Mr.
It is by agreement included in his fare. This person," the other bearer, "we engaged in the street outside for a pint of beer. Which is twopence. Judy, give the person twopence. I was not sure you had a workman of your own here, my dear friend, or we needn't have employed this person." Grandfather Smallweed refers to Phil with a glance of considerable terror and a half-subdued "O Lord!
George, laying a great and not altogether complimentary stress on his last adjective. "And how does the world use you, Mr. George?" Grandfather Smallweed inquires, slowly rubbing his legs. "Pretty much as usual. Like a football." He is a swarthy brown man of fifty, well made, and good looking, with crisp dark hair, bright eyes, and a broad chest.
This touches a spring in Grandmother Smallweed, who, chuckling as usual at the trivets, cries, "Over the water! Charley over the water, Charley over the water, over the water to Charley, Charley over the water, over the water to Charley!" and becomes quite energetic about it. Grandfather looks at the cushion but has not sufficiently recovered his late exertion.
"Why, it's partly a habit, Mr. George, and yes it partly helps the circulation," he replies. "The cir-cu-la-tion!" repeats Mr. George, folding his arms upon his chest and seeming to become two sizes larger. "Not much of that, I should think." "Truly I'm old, Mr. George," says Grandfather Smallweed. "But I can carry my years. I'm older than HER," nodding at his wife, "and see what she is?
Oh, dear me!" Nor in his apprehension, on the surface of things, without some reason, for Phil, who has never beheld the apparition in the black-velvet cap before, has stopped short with a gun in his hand with much of the air of a dead shot intent on picking Mr. Smallweed off as an ugly old bird of the crow species. "Judy, my child," says Grandfather Smallweed, "give the person his twopence.
Smallweed with grave attention and now and then fans the cloud of smoke away in order that he may see him the more clearly. "Well," returns the old man, "it's true that I don't see company, Mr. George, and that I don't treat. I can't afford to it. But as you, in your pleasant way, made your pipe a condition " "Why, it's not for the value of it; that's no great thing.
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