"Victoria ought to be abed," said Rachel, taking a peep at baby.
"She can't go," retorted Prissy, "afore 'er mother's ready to take 'er."
"Where is her mother?" asked Aaron.
"At the Jolly Sailor Boy, enj'ying of 'erself."
"Ah. And where is your aunt?"
"At the Jolly Sailor Boy, too, 'aving a 'arf-quartern. There's been a reg'lar row there about Mrs. Macrory's flannin peddicut."
"What happened to it?"
"It went wrong. Yes, it did. Yer needn't larf. Call me a story, do! I would if I was you!"
"No, no, Prissy," said Aaron in a soothing tone. "How did the flannel petticoat go wrong?"
"Nobody knowed at fust. Aunty does Mrs. Macrory's washing, and a lot more besides, and the things gits mixed sometimes. Aunty can't 'elp that--'ow can she? So Mrs. Macrory's things was took 'ome without the peddicut. Mrs. Macrory she meets aunty at the Jolly Sailor Boy, and begins to kick up about it. 'Where's my peddicut?' she ses. ''Ow should I know?' ses aunty. Then, wot d'yer think? Mrs. Macrory sees somethink sticking out of aunty's dress be'ind, and she pulls at it. 'Why,' she ses, 'you've got it on!' That's wot the row wos about. Aunty didn't know 'ow it come on 'er--she's ready to take 'er oath on that. Aint it rum?"