Тяжкі часи

The Whelp

           Tomsaidthiswithoneeyeshutupagain,andlookingoverhisglassknowingly,athisentertainer.

           ‘Averygoodfellowindeed!’returnedMr.JamesHarthouse.

           ‘Youthinkso,don’tyou?’saidTom.Andshutuphiseyeagain.

           Mr.JamesHarthousesmiled;andrisingfromhisendofthesofa,andloungingwithhisbackagainstthechimney-piece,sothathestoodbeforetheemptyfire-grateashesmoked,infrontofTomandlookingdownathim,observed:

           ‘Whatacomicalbrother-in-lawyouare!’

           ‘Whatacomicalbrother-in-lawoldBounderbyis,Ithinkyoumean,’saidTom.

           ‘Youareapieceofcaustic,Tom,’retortedMr.JamesHarthouse.

           Therewassomethingsoveryagreeableinbeingsointimatewithsuchawaistcoat;inbeingcalledTom,insuchanintimateway,bysuchavoice;inbeingonsuchoff-handtermssosoon,withsuchapairofwhiskers;thatTomwasuncommonlypleasedwithhimself.

           ‘Oh!Idon’tcareforoldBounderby,’saidhe,‘ifyoumeanthat.IhavealwayscalledoldBounderbybythesamenamewhenIhavetalkedabouthim,andIhavealwaysthoughtofhiminthesameway.Iamnotgoingtobegintobepolitenow,aboutoldBounderby.Itwouldberatherlateintheday.’

           ‘Don’tmindme,’returnedJames;‘buttakecarewhenhiswifeisby,youknow.’

           ‘Hiswife?’saidTom.‘MysisterLoo?Oyes!’Andhelaughed,andtookalittlemoreofthecoolingdrink.

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