He taps the leather apron that is hard as a plank.
He sweeps me along to the side of the street, sets my back against the porch and says to me, in a low voice, but with heated conviction, "That Petrarque chap, he's really a bad lot." He takes off his cap, and while the crescendo nodding of his bristly head seems to brush the night, he adds: "I've mended him his purse.
It had become percolated.

I've put him a patch on that cost me thirty centimes, and I've resewn the edge with braid, and all the lot.
They're expensive, them jobs.

Well, when I open my mouth to talk about that matter of his sewing-machine that I'm interested in and that he can't use himself, he becomes congealed." He recounts to me the mad claims of Trompson in the matter of his new soles, and the conduct of Monsieur Becret, who, though old enough to know better, had taken advantage of his good faith by paying for the repair of his spout with a knife "that would cut anything it sees." He goes on to detail for my benefit all the important matters in his life.
Then he says, "I'm not rich, I'm not, but I'm consentious.

If I'm a botcher, it's 'cos my father and my grandfather were botchers before me.

There's some that's for making a big stir in the world, there are.
I don't hold with that idea.