“Mr. Boffin?” inquired Venus, with a glance towards the alligator’s yard or two of smile.

“Mister be blowed!” cried Wegg, yielding to his honest indignation. “Boffin. Dusty Boffin. That foxey old grunter and grinder, sir, turns into the yard this morning, to meddle with our property, a menial tool of his own, a young man by the name of Sloppy. Ecod, when I say to him, ‘What do you want here, young man? This is a private yard,’ he pulls out a paper from Boffin’s other blackguard, the one I was passed over for. ‘This is to authorize Sloppy to overlook the carting and to watch the work.’ That’s pretty strong, I think, Mr. Venus?”

“Remember he doesn’t know yet of our claim on the property,” suggested Venus.

“Then he must have a hint of it,” said Wegg, “and a strong one that’ll jog his terrors a bit. Give him an inch, and he’ll take an ell. Let him alone this time, and what’ll he do with our property next? I tell you what, Mr. Venus; it comes to this; I must be overbearing with Boffin, or I shall fly into several pieces. I can’t contain myself when I look at him. Every time I see him putting his hand in his pocket, I see him putting it into my pocket. Every time I hear him jingling his money, I hear him taking liberties with my money. Flesh and blood can’t bear it. No,” said Mr. Wegg, greatly exasperated, “and I’ll go further. A wooden leg can’t bear it!”

“But, Mr. Wegg,” urged Venus, “it was your own idea that he should not be exploded upon, till the Mounds were carted away.”

“But it was likewise my idea, Mr. Venus,” retorted Wegg, “that if he came sneaking and sniffing about the property, he should be threatened, given to understand that he has no right to it, and be made our slave. Wasn’t that my idea, Mr. Venus?”

“It certainly was, Mr. Wegg.”

“It certainly was, as you say, partner,” assented Wegg, put into a better humour by the ready admission. “Very well. I consider his planting one of his menial tools in the yard, an act of sneaking and sniffing. And his nose shall be put to the grindstone for it.”

“It was not your fault, Mr. Wegg, I must admit,” said Venus, “that he got off with the Dutch bottle that night.”

“As you handsomely say again, partner! No, it was not my fault. I’d have had that bottle out of him. Was it to be borne that he should come, like a thief in the dark, digging among stuff that was far more ours than his (seeing that we could deprive him of every grain of it, if he didn’t buy us at our own figure), and carrying off treasure from its bowels? No, it was not to be borne. And for that, too, his nose shall be put to the grindstone.”

“How do you propose to do it, Mr. Wegg?”

“To put his nose to the grindstone? I propose,” returned that estimable man, “to insult him openly. And, if looking into this eye of mine, he dares to offer a word in answer, to retort upon him before he can take his breath, ‘Add another word to that, you dusty old dog, and you’re a beggar.’ ”

“Suppose he says nothing, Mr. Wegg?”

“Then,” replied Wegg, “we shall have come to an understanding with very little trouble, and I’ll break him and drive him, Mr. Venus. I’ll put him in harness, and I’ll bear him up tight, and I’ll break him and drive him. The harder the old Dust is driven, sir, the higher he’ll pay. And I mean to be paid high, Mr. Venus, I promise you.”

“You speak quite revengefully, Mr. Wegg.”