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Mr Wickham, pleased to be in a luggage van, was flitting to and fro like
a gentlemanly butterfly.
'By Jingo!' he cried, 'here's something for you! "M. Finsbury, 16 John
Street, Bloomsbury, London." M. stands for Michael, you sly dog; you
keep two establishments, do you?'
'O, that's Morris,' responded Michael from the other end of the van,
where he had found a comfortable seat upon some sacks. 'He's a little
cousin of mine. I like him myself, because he's afraid of me. He's
one of the ornaments of Bloomsbury, and has a collection of some
kind--birds' eggs or something that's supposed to be curious. I bet it's
nothing to my clients!'
'What a lark it would be to play billy with the labels!' chuckled Mr
Wickham. 'By George, here's a tack-hammer! We might send all these
things skipping about the premises like what's-his-name!'
At this moment, the guard, surprised by the sound of voices, opened the
door of his little cabin.
'You had best step in here, gentlemen,' said he, when he had heard their
story.
'Won't you come, Wickham?' asked Michael.
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