“All right, mother,” said Bill, pocketing the paper. “I’ll do my best for yer.”
The woman rose and took her departure.
“Vell I’m blest,” cried the man with the cutaway coat. “Blow me tight if Bill hasn’t got a woman on the hooks. We shall see a big wedding presently, I s’pose.”
“I hope she’s got plenty of blunt, and that we may be invited, the whole piling on us, to the wedding breakfast,” remarked the man with the cutaway coat.
“She’s no blunt, you fool,” said the pale-faced man. “No such luck.”
“Ah, I see, Bill’s going to marry her for her beauty—a love match, eh?” observed another of the party.
“You’re a set of noodles to be talkin’ like that ’ere,” said Cooney. “Don’t ye know who she is?”
“No, I don’t,” returned the sporting man.
“Vell, then, I do. ’Tis Mother Grover, as vas a friend of Lorrie Stanbridge’s some years ago.”
There was a prolonged “ah!” at this last observation.