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She always made a bargain for it, by holding up, as a statement

of its just price, one finger less than the merchant held up,

whatever his number might be.

"Now, Mr. Cruncher," said Miss Pross, whose eyes were red with

felicity; "if you are ready, I am."

Jerry hoarsely professed himself at Miss Pross's service. He had

worn all his rust off long ago, but nothing would file his spiky

head down.

"There's all manner of things wanted," said Miss Pross, "and we

shall have a precious time of it. We want wine, among the rest.

Nice toasts these Redheads will be drinking, wherever we buy it."

"It will be much the same to your knowledge, miss, I should

think," retorted Jerry, "whether they drink your health or the

Old Un's."

"Who's he?" said Miss Pross.

Mr. Cruncher, with some diffidence, explained himself as meaning

"Old Nick's."

"Ha!" said Miss Pross, "it doesn't need an interpreter to explain

the meaning of these creatures. They have but one, and it's

Midnight Murder, and Mischief."