Complete Works. George Eliot

went to school much. That’s what I jaw my old mother for. I says, ‘You should ha’ sent me to school a bit more,’ I says, ‘an’ then I could ha’ read i’ the books like fun, an’ kep’ my head cool an’ empty.’ Lors, she’s fine an’ comfor’ble now, my old mother is; she ates her baked meat an’ taters as often as she likes. For I’m gettin’ so full o’ money, I must hev a wife to spend it for me. But it’s botherin,’ a wife is,—and Mumps mightn’t like her.”

      Uncle Glegg, who regarded himself as a jocose man since he had retired from business, was beginning to find Bob amusing, but he had still a disapproving observation to make, which kept his face serious.

      “Ah,” he said, “I should think you’re at a loss for ways o’ spending your money, else you wouldn’t keep that big dog, to eat as much as two Christians. It’s shameful—shameful!” But he spoke more in sorrow than in anger, and quickly added:

      “But, come now, let’s hear more about this business, Tom. I suppose you want a little sum to make a venture with. But where’s all your own money? You don’t spend it all—eh?”

      “No, sir,” said Tom, coloring; “but my father is unwilling to risk it, and I don’t like to press him. If I could get twenty or thirty pounds to begin with, I could pay five per cent for it, and then I could gradually make a little capital of my own, and do without a loan.”

      “Ay—ay,” said Mr. Glegg, in an approving tone; “that’s not a bad notion, and I won’t say as I wouldn’t be your man. But it ’ull be as well for me to see this Salt, as you talk on. And then—here’s this friend o’ yours offers to buy the goods for you. Perhaps you’ve got somebody to stand surety for you if the money’s put into your hands?” added the cautious old gentleman, looking over his spectacles at Bob.

      “I don’t think that’s necessary, uncle,” said Tom. “At least, I mean it would not be necessary for me, because I know Bob well; but perhaps it would be right for you to have some security.”

      “You get your percentage out o’ the purchase, I suppose?” said Mr. Glegg, looking at Bob.

      “No, sir,” said Bob, rather indignantly; “I didn’t offer to get a apple for Mr. Tom, o’ purpose to hev a bite out of it myself. When I play folks tricks, there’ll be more fun in ’em nor that.”

      “Well, but it’s nothing but right you should have a small percentage,” said Mr. Glegg. “I’ve no opinion o’ transactions where folks do things for nothing. It allays looks bad.”

      “Well, then,” said Bob, whose keenness saw at once what was implied, “I’ll tell you what I get by’t, an’ it’s money in my pocket in the end,—I make myself look big, wi’ makin’ a bigger purchase. That’s what I’m thinking on. Lors! I’m a ’cute chap,—I am.”

      “Mr. Glegg, Mr. Glegg!” said a severe voice from the open parlor window, “pray are you coming in to tea, or are you going to stand talking with packmen till you get murdered in the open daylight?”

      “Murdered?” said Mr. Glegg; “what’s the woman talking of? Here’s your nephey Tom come about a bit o’ business.”

      “Murdered,—yes,—it isn’t many ’sizes ago since a packman murdered a young woman in a lone place, and stole her thimble, and threw her body into a ditch.”

      “Nay, nay,” said Mr. Glegg, soothingly, “you’re thinking o’ the man wi’ no legs, as drove a dog-cart.”

      “Well, it’s the same thing, Mr. Glegg, only you’re fond o’ contradicting what I say; and if my nephey’s come about business, it ’ud be more fitting if you’d bring him into the house, and let his aunt know about it, instead o’ whispering in corners, in that plotting, underminding way.”

      “Well, well,” said Mr. Glegg, “we’ll come in now.”

      “You needn’t stay here,” said the lady to Bob, in a loud voice, adapted to the moral, not the physical, distance between them. “We don’t want anything. I don’t deal wi’ packmen. Mind you shut the gate after you.”

      “Stop a bit; not so fast,” said Mr. Glegg; “I haven’t done with this young man yet. Come in, Tom; come in,” he added, stepping in at the French window.

      “Mr. Glegg,” said Mrs. G., in a fatal tone, “if you’re going to let that man and his dog in on my carpet, before my very face, be so good as to let me know. A wife’s got a right to ask that, I hope.”

      “Don’t you be uneasy, mum,” said Bob, touching his cap. He saw at once that Mrs. Glegg was a bit of game worth running down, and longed to be at the sport; “we’ll stay out upo’ the gravel here,—Mumps and me will. Mumps knows his company,—he does. I might hish at him by th’ hour together, before he’d fly at a real gentlewoman like you. It’s wonderful how he knows which is the good-looking ladies; and’s partic’lar fond of ’em when they’ve good shapes. Lors!” added Bob, laying down his pack on the gravel, “it’s a thousand pities such a lady as you shouldn’t deal with a packman, i’ stead o’ goin’ into these newfangled shops, where there’s half-a-dozen fine gents wi’ their chins propped up wi’ a stiff stock, a-looking like bottles wi’ ornamental stoppers, an’ all got to get their dinner out of a bit o’ calico; it stan’s to reason you must pay three times the price you pay a packman, as is the nat’ral way o’ gettin’ goods,—an’ pays no rent, an’ isn’t forced to throttle himself till the lies are squeezed out on him, whether he will or no. But lors! mum, you know what it is better nor I do,—you can see through them shopmen, I’ll be bound.”

      “Yes, I reckon I can, and through the packmen too,” observed Mrs. Glegg, intending to imply that Bob’s flattery had produced no effect on her; while her husband, standing behind her with his hands in his pockets and legs apart, winked and smiled with conjugal delight at the probability of his wife’s being circumvented.

      “Ay, to be sure, mum,” said Bob. “Why, you must ha’ dealt wi’ no end o’ packmen when you war a young lass—before the master here had the luck to set eyes on you. I know where you lived, I do,—seen th’ house many a time,—close upon Squire Darleigh’s,—a stone house wi’ steps——”

      “Ah, that it had,” said Mrs. Glegg, pouring out the tea. “You know something o’ my family, then? Are you akin to that packman with a squint in his eye, as used to bring th’ Irish linen?”

      “Look you there now!” said Bob, evasively. “Didn’t I know as you’d remember the best bargains you’ve made in your life was made wi’ packmen? Why, you see even a squintin’ packman’s better nor a shopman as can see straight. Lors! if I’d had the luck to call at the stone house wi’ my pack, as lies here,”—stooping and thumping the bundle emphatically with his fist,—“an’ th’ handsome young lasses all stannin’ out on the stone steps, it ud’ ha’ been summat like openin’ a pack, that would. It’s on’y the poor houses now as a packman calls on, if it isn’t for the sake o’ the sarvant-maids. They’re paltry times, these are. Why, mum, look at the printed cottons now, an’ what they was when you wore ’em,—why, you wouldn’t put such a thing on now, I can see. It must be first-rate quality, the manifactur as you’d buy,—summat as ’ud wear as well as your own faitures.”

      “Yes, better quality nor any you’re like to carry; you’ve got nothing first-rate but brazenness, I’ll be bound,” said Mrs. Glegg, with a triumphant sense of her insurmountable sagacity. “Mr. Glegg, are you going ever to sit down to your tea? Tom, there’s a cup for you.”

      “You speak true there, mum,” said Bob. “My pack isn’t for ladies like you. The time’s gone by for that. Bargains picked up dirt cheap! A bit o’ damage here an’ there, as can be cut out, or else niver seen i’ the wearin’, but not fit to offer to rich folks as can pay for the look o’ things as nobody sees. I’m not the man as ’ud offer t’ open my pack to you, mum; no, no; I’m a imperent chap, as you say,—these times makes folks