“And what was the sick gentleman’s name?” asked Mr. R——‘s companion.
“It was one Mr. Warney,—a painter, wot lived at Clap’am. Since thin I’ve lost sight of Peg; for we had ‘igh words about the childern, and she was a spiteful ‘oman. But you can larn where she be at Mr. Warney’s, if so be he’s still above ground.”
“And did this woman still go by the name of Joplin?”
Bill grinned: “She warn’t such a spooney as that,—that name was in your black books too much, Mr. R——, for a ‘spectable nuss for sick bodies; no, she was then called Martha Skeggs, what was her own mother’s name afore marriage. Anything more, gemman?”
“I am satisfied,” said the younger visitor, rising; “there is the purse, and Mr. R—— will bring you ten sovereigns in addition. Good-day to you.”
Bill, with superabundant bows and flourishes, showed his visitors out, and then, in high glee, he began to romp with his children; and the whole family circle was in a state of uproarious enjoyment when the door flew open, and in entered Grabman, his brief-bag in hand, dust-soiled and unshaven.
“Aha, neighbour! your servant, your servant; just come back! Always so merry; for the life of me, I couldn’t help looking in! Dear me, Bill, why, you’re in luck!” and Mr. Grabman pointed to a pile of sovereigns which Bill had emptied from the purse to count over and weigh on the tip of his forefinger.
“Yes,” said Bill, sweeping the gold into his corduroy pocket; “and who do you think brought me these shiners? Why, who but old Peggy, the ‘oman wot you put out at Clapham.”
“Well, never mind Peggy, now, Bill; I want to ask you what you have done with Margaret Joplin, whom, sly seducer that you are, you carried off from—”
“Why, man, Peggy be Joplin, and Joplin be Peggy! And it’s for that piece of noos that I got all them pretty new picters of his Majesty Bill,—my namesake, God bliss ‘im!”