back over his shoulder at the room where Florence slept. On the road home, he was more demonstrative of aggressive intentions against the other foot-passengers, than comported with a professor of the peaceful art of self-defence. Arrived at home, instead of leaving Mr. Toots in his apartments when he had escorted him thither, he remained before him weighing his white hat in both hands by the brim, and twitching his head and nose (both of which had been many times broken, and but indifferently repaired), with an air of decided disrespect.
His patron being much engaged with his own thoughts, did not observe this for some time, nor indeed until the Chicken, determined not to be overlooked, had made divers clicking sounds with his tongue and teeth, to attract attention.
`Now, Master,' said the Chicken, doggedly, when he, at length, caught Mr. Toot's eye, `I want to know whether this here gammon is to finish it, or whether you're a going in to win?'
`Chicken,' returned Mr. Toots, `explain yourself.'
`Why then, here's all about it, Master,' said the Chicken. `I ain't a cove to chuck a word away. Here's wot it is. Are any on 'em to be doubled up?'
When the Chicken put this question he dropped his hat, made a dodge and a feint with his left hand, hit a supposed enemy a violent blow with his right, shook his head smartly, and recovered himself.
`Come, Master,' said the Chicken. `Is it to be gammon or pluck? Which?'
`Chicken,' returned Mr. Toots, `your expressions are coarse, and your meaning is obscure.'
`Why, then, I tell you what, Master,' said the Chicken. `This is where it is. It's mean.'
`What is mean, Chicken?' asked Mr. Toots.
`It is,' said the Chicken, with a frightful corrugation of his broken nose. `There! Now, Master! Wot! When you could go and blow on this here match to the stiff 'un;' by which depreciatory appellation it has been since supposed that the Game One intended to signify Mr. Dombey; `and when you could knock the winner and all the kit of 'em dead out o' wind and time, are you going to give in? To give in?' said the Chicken, with contemptuous emphasis. `Wy, it's mean!'
`Chicken,' said Mr. Toots, severely, `you're a perfect Vulture! Your sentiments are atrocious.'
`My sentiments is Game and Fancy, Master,' returned the Chicken. `That's wot my sentiments is. I can't abear a meanness. I'm afore the public, I'm to be heerd on at the bar of the Little Helephant, and no Gov'ner o' mine mustn't go and do what's mean. Wy, it's mean,' said the Chicken, with increased expression. `That's where it is. It's mean.'
`Chicken,' said Mr. Toots, `You disgust me.'
`Master,' returned the Chicken, putting on his hat, `there's a pair on us, then. Come! Here's a offer! You've spoke to me more than once't or twice't about the public line. Never mind! Give me a fi'typunnote to- morrow, and let me go.'
`Chicken,' returned Mr. Toots, `after the odious sentiments you have expressed, I shall be glad to part on such terms.'
`Done then,' said the Chicken. `It's a bargain. This here conduct of yourn won't suit my book, Master. Wy, it's mean,' said the Chicken; who seemed equally unable to get beyond that point, and to stop short of it. `That's where it is; it's mean!'