“Now that’s just where you’re wrong,” drawled Arthur.
“’Tain’t a life at all,” Rosa interrupted severely, “it’s only sniffing, having a bad cold! No sort of a life at all—d’ye think it, Mr. McCall?”
“No, I do not,” said Larry with a chuckle, “but Arthur does!”
“Oh, I know what you’re a deluding on,” commenced the young man again, “but....”
“Strike me dead if I can see any fun in funerals!” Mrs. Pellegrini said with finality, taking up her mug. “But if you will have your grief, young man,” she added, pausing in one of her gulps to gaze at Arthur until he quivered, “you must have it, and may fortune fall in love with what we like. Fill up that cup now!”
The young man in agitation obeyed, and while this was doing we all heard someone come over the bridge singing a song, and that was Jerry Ogwin, who could tell the neatest tales and sing the littlest songs. Well, there were great salutations, for we all knew Jerry and loved Jerry, and he loved some of us. But he was the fiercest looking, fieriest gipsy man you ever saw, and he had all the gullible prescience of a cockney.
“My fortune! Where are you from, you cunning little man?”
“I bin doing a bit o’ road down Kent and London way. D’ye know Lewisham?” commenced Jerry.
“No,” said Larry, grinning at me, “but Arthur does!”
“No, I don’t; I never been there,” chanted Arthur.