Mr. Blyth, however, was beyond
all comparison the more laughable object of the two, as he soared
nervously into the air on Mat's foot, tottering infirmly in the strong
grasp that supported him, till he seemed to be trembling all over, from
the tips of his crisp black hair to the flying tails of his frock-coat.
As for the expression of his round rosy face, with the bright eyes
fixed in a startled stare, and the plump cheeks crumpled up by an
uneasy smile, it was so exquisitely absurd, as young Thorpe saw it over
his fellow-lodger's black skull-cap, that he roared again with
laughter. "Oh! look up at him!" cried Zack, falling back in his chair.
"Look at his face, for heaven's sake, before you put him down!"
But Mat was not to be moved by this appeal. All the attention his eyes
could spare during those few moments, was devoted, not to Mr. Blyth's
face but to Mr. Blyth's watch-chain. There hung the bright little key
of the painter's bureau, dangling jauntily to and fro over his
waistcoat-pocket. As the right foot of the Sampson of Kirk Street
hoisted him up slowly, the key swung temptingly backwards and forwards
between them. "Come take me! come take me!" it seemed to say, as Mat's
eyes fixed greedily on it every time it dangled towards him.
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